Blizzard
by Joodiff
Summary: Boyd and Grace are driving back to London after a conference in Manchester, but bad weather conspires against them, forcing them to interrupt their journey. Things can only get better... can't they? T-rated for language and adult themes. Enjoy!
1. Unforeseen Circumstances

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

 _ **A/N:** It may seem odd to choose July to upload a fic centred around snow, but this story has been sitting unfinished on my hard-drive for more than four years, much to the infuriation of those who knew about it and wanted to read it. So here it is, finally finished right in the middle of summer._

 _Many thanks to Got Tea for enthusiastic cheerleading and good-natured backside-kicking. Without her, it would still be unfinished. Sincere thanks also go to all who continue to read, write, and review in this fandom._ _Enjoy! :)_

* * *

 **Blizzard**

by Joodiff

* * *

 **ONE – Unforeseen Circumstances**

It's been an extremely long day, one that started far too early, and the combination of the car's warmth and the continuous motorway drone is incredibly soporific, but even so Grace isn't really aware that she's dozing in the front passenger seat until she's disturbed by sharp, muttered cursing from her right. She opens her eyes, about to question the muted outburst, but her words die away as she registers the sudden severity of the arctic conditions outside. What were merely a few swirling snowflakes last time she looked has become a heavy blizzard, and although wet black tyre tracks are still visible ahead of them in the arc of the Audi's powerful headlights, the snow is definitely settling. And it's settling fast.

Startled, she asks, "How long has it been this bad?"

Boyd glances in her direction. His expression is grim as he replies, "We ran into it about ten miles back, and it's been getting steadily worse ever since."

Shifting herself into a more upright position, Grace looks for some clue to their approximate location. There's nothing, the snow and the darkness successfully disguising anything that might be at all familiar. Disorientated, she frowns before inquiring, "Where are we?"

The reply is terse. "Not far from Stafford."

She checks her watch – not easy in the gloom. It's well past eight already. They are going to be very, very late getting back to London. If, given that the rapidly falling snow only seems to be increasing in strength and severity, they make it back at all. Boyd is not driving fast, but she can feel the car's traction control struggling to keep a safe grip on the treacherous road surface. The gloomily-prophesied bad weather has arrived early and with a vengeance, but although it's mid-January so much snow falling so suddenly anywhere south of Scotland is highly unusual.

"Do you think we should stop?" she eventually asks.

Boyd shakes his head. The low light level in the car makes his strong, striking profile seem even more hawkish than usual. "If we can make it down as far as Birmingham, we should be all right."

He's probably right, she thinks. The severity of the first real snow of the winter has no doubt caught everyone by surprise – the British are notoriously bad at coping with unexpected extremes of weather – but the chances are that the further south they get, the clearer the roads will be. Still, Grace suddenly isn't holding out much hope of being warmly and safely tucked up in her own bed until at least the early hours of the morning.

For a while neither of them says anything more. They are quiet, but the atmosphere between them is easy enough; it's simply that they've spent far too many hours cooped up in the car together since leaving London painfully early that same morning. And now that their official business is concluded and they are both exhausted, there's really not much left to say as they head doggedly back towards the metropolis. Staring out at the thick snow for a moment before forcing herself to relax, Grace is incredibly glad she's not the one driving. In hindsight, perhaps it would have been more sensible to fly up to Manchester than to drive, but…

"Shit," Boyd's irritable voice declares.

Reluctantly, Grace opens her eyes, only dimly aware that she's been dozing again. They have reached the back of what appears to be a very long queue of near-stationary traffic. Snow-covered and slow-moving cars, vans and lorries are straddled across all three lanes of the motorway. The snow is still falling heavily, and even the Audi's brisk windscreen wipers are barely keeping up with the formidable blizzard.

Grace empathises fully with her companion's tangible annoyance. She grumbles, "Oh, wonderful."

For a moment they are still rolling slowly forwards, but then the brake lights in front of them come on, flaring brightly against the snow, and they come to a gentle but inexorable halt. The only good thing about the whole unwelcome situation is that it is blessedly warm inside the big executive car.

-oOo-

In just over an hour they manage to travel perhaps half a mile. Their agonisingly slow progress has an entirely predictable and detrimental effect on Boyd's temper. He growls and swears, and curses the other road users around them, and more than once he offers the kind of abrupt hand signals that are definitely not listed in any version of the Highway Code that Grace has ever encountered. Her half-hearted attempts to pacify him fall on stubbornly deaf ears, and when a small, sporty silver hatchback suddenly swerves in from the middle lane and very deliberately cuts in front of them, he loses patience altogether, sounding the horn and angrily flashing the car's main beam. A moment later one hand leaves the steering wheel to locate the discreet, aftermarket switch mounted low on the dashboard, and then there are rhythmic flashes of blue bouncing off the snow and the other vehicles in the gridlocked queue.

The unmarked Audi's under-grille strobes firmly announce their presence and status to everyone in the immediate vicinity and the effect is instantaneous and faintly amusing. The standard of driving all around them improves immeasurably, and they are suddenly afforded all the space they could possibly want to manoeuvre in. For a moment Grace thinks Boyd will push forwards, forcing a fourth lane through the bunched traffic, but she's wrong. He pulls the car left, out onto the hard shoulder where the deepening snow lies untouched, and suddenly they are making much better progress.

"Are you allowed to do this?" Grace inquires, not expecting an answer.

"No," Boyd says simply, "but tell me you really want to sit here in traffic all bloody night?"

He has a point. They continue to plough up the hard shoulder, not fast, but their progress is much quicker than the rest of the nearly-stalled queue, and eventually theirs are not the only blue lights visible in the dark and the ever-increasing snowstorm. Boyd slows down as they approach the temporary police roadblock. Two marked traffic cars are parked across the motorway lanes, all lights on. As they approach, a disgruntled-looking uniformed officer in a thick high-visibility coat waves them down.

There's an icy blast of cold air as Boyd lowers the driver's window and holds up his warrant card for inspection. "DSI Boyd, Met."

"Sir," the subordinate officer acknowledges with a curt nod.

"What's happening here?"

"Serious accident about half a mile down," the man supplies with a brief wave of his arm. "Jack-knifed lorry and a couple of cars. Three fatalities at least."

"How bad are the road conditions ahead?"

The officer shakes his head. "Not good, sir. This stretch alone is likely to stay closed until the morning. The snowploughs are struggling to keep up, and the gritters are stuck at Cannock."

"We need to come through."

He doesn't look surprised by Boyd's determination. He nods. "No problem, but you'll need to come off at the next junction – the whole motorway's closed further down, too."

"What about the A-roads?" Grace asks, leaning across to make herself more easily heard.

"Pretty much impassable at the moment, ma'am," the officer tells her, his expression pensive. "If you're trying to get back to London tonight, my advice is to forget it. I doubt you'll make it as far as Birmingham, let alone any further."

Which definitely isn't what either of them wants to hear.

-oOo-

Perhaps it's the sobering sight of the accident site, of the crumpled, crushed metal and the grim cluster of emergency vehicles and their attendant staff, Grace isn't sure, but just as she's trying to think of the most tactful way to phrase her thoughts, Boyd announces, "This is sheer bloody madness, Grace. We're either going to end up stuck, or we're going to have a serious accident. I'm going to have to pull in somewhere."

Grace offers a silent prayer of thanks to the gods of common sense. Her response is prompt. "Next junction?"

He nods. "Yeah. There's one of those cheap travel hotels at the services there, I think. I vote we give up for tonight."

"Seconded," Grace agrees, before Boyd can even think about changing his mind.

He grunts, seems to relax a little. "Give Spence a call. Tell him he's manning the fort until we make it back to civilisation."

Grace does as instructed, and she's amused by their colleague's very distinct and very careful non-reaction to the unexpected news that they are intending to check themselves into a roadside hotel for the night. She's almost certain that Spencer Jordan won't be deliberately calling anyone to broadcast the fact, but come the morning… Oh, yes, the rumour mill will certainly have fun with the information. To put it mildly. Thanks to the appalling weather she loses the signal before she can say goodbye, but it doesn't matter – Spencer is now aware that he's temporarily at the CCU's helm, and she knows that he will make every attempt to contact Boyd if anything important crops up before they make it back to the capital.

It's a relief to finally leave the desolate stretch of empty, closed motorway, but as soon as they reach the massive blocks of parking in the service area, they both realise just how serious the extensive problems being caused by the abnormally bad weather already are. There are cars and vans everywhere, some properly parked, some looking as if they were simply randomly abandoned as the snow got worse. There are a lot of over-excited people milling around in the blizzard conditions, too; many chattering animatedly to people from other vehicles. It's snowing hard, and something unusual and exciting is happening – it's more than enough to fire up the enthusiastic Blitz spirit in the average British citizen.

"Fuck's sake," Boyd grumbles as he has to brake sharply to avoid a couple of rowdy jaywalkers, but thankfully the Audi holds on tenaciously instead of sliding. Still, Grace is more than happy when he finally selects a place to park and reverses the big car neatly into it. He switches off the wipers, and within seconds the windscreen is covered by an impenetrable blanket of snow.

"Climate change," Grace says with a grimace.

"Screw climate change," Boyd growls in response, unfastening his seatbelt. "Sit tight a minute, Grace."

He gets out of the car and there is a brutal inrush of freezing air before he slams the door closed again. Grace shivers and reaches behind her to grab her thick wool coat from the back seat. She can't see what Boyd's doing, but from the slight movement of the car, she suspects he's rummaging in the boot. She isn't surprised. Neither of them came prepared for an overnight stay, but Boyd is so often called out at anti-social hours, and so often fails to return home at night that there's normally an overnight bag somewhere in his car. It's irritating, but he will doubtless have a considerable advantage over her. For once, however, Grace doesn't care – the sudden harsh weather is simply far too bad to consider trying to continue on towards London.

There's a sharp tap on the passenger window and she cracks the door open a fraction, her breath immediately forming dense clouds. Boyd is sheltering under a large black umbrella, and sure enough, he has the well-worn handles of a small leather holdall clutched in his free hand. He asks, "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," is her morose reply as she prepares to get out of the car.

It's viciously, shockingly cold outside, and even though the umbrella keeps some of the snow at bay, the wind is whipping the heavy flakes wildly in every direction. Grace can feel them hitting her face – each one stinging her skin just for a second before melting away just in time for the next to land.

"It's slippery as hell out here," Boyd informs her, extending a chivalrous arm, "grab hold, and for God's sake don't let go."

Grace doesn't need to be told twice.

-oOo-

"I'm sorry, sir," the fair-haired young man behind the reception desk says with a weary but still glib professional insincerity, "but we simply don't have any rooms available. We've been turning people away for the last hour."

Under any other circumstances, Grace would quickly intervene, would attempt to simultaneously placate both men, but she's cold, tired, and in no mood to go back out into the freezing night. So she doesn't say a single word. Simply stares at the young man and waits for the inevitable explosion of temper from her irritable companion.

"Bollocks," Boyd raps out. There's a loud bang as he slams down his open warrant card. "I know damn well you always keep rooms in reserve. Don't piss me about."

The harried-looking man glances down at the identity card and silver Metropolitan Police badge on clear display. He looks at Grace, then back at Boyd. He makes a tentative throat-clearing noise and says, "Well, given the exceptional weather conditions I might be able to – "

"Get on with it," Boyd barks at him. "If I have to stand around here freezing my balls off for much longer I am _not_ going to be a happy man. In fact I am going to be a very _unhappy_ man. Do I make myself clear?"

"Um…" the young man mumbles, and starts to busily tap away on his computer keyboard. It takes him a minute or two, but eventually he looks up. "I do have one room available, sir, a – "

"Fuck's _sake_ , can't you bloody count? I need _two_ rooms."

Despite the irate tone and the baleful stare, the receptionist's headshake is decisive. His expression, though, is thoroughly miserable. Clearly, he is not having the best night of his life. "I'm sorry, sir. We do have one last twin room available, but that really is all."

"A twin?" Grace queries, deciding that she is both rather sorry for the beleaguered young man, and far too weary to engage in pointless argument. "All right. We'll take it."

Boyd looks at her in a manner that suggests he thinks she's gone completely mad. "Grace – "

Grace knows exactly how to deal with him. She's had years of practice, after all. She cuts him short with, "Just give the man your damn credit card, Boyd."

-oOo-

 _Continued…_


	2. Temporary Accommodation

**TWO – Temporary Accommodation**

They bicker petulantly all the way to the room. Which is, in fact, quite a long way, involving a cramped lift and innumerable identical, windowless and utterly unremarkable corridors. But Grace eventually wins hands down with a final stinging, "Trust me, Boyd, lying awake all night listening to you snoring your damned head off is the very _last_ thing I want to be doing. Just stop bloody moaning, for God's sake."

There are several a long moments of heavy and sulky silence followed by an affronted growl of, "I don't snore."

Grace doesn't stop walking. "Yes, you do."

Boyd's response is indignant. "Oh? And how the bloody hell would _you_ know?"

As they reach the correct door, she counters, "Because even with _both_ office doors closed I used to be able to hear you 'resting your eyes'."

She thinks he will rise to the deliberate provocation. He usually does, even when he's not tired and irritable. But to her surprise he just gives her a tired and unexpectedly disarming grin before using the provided key-card to unlock the hotel room's door. With exaggerated courtesy, he says, "After you, Doctor Foley."

The bland, cream-coloured room could be a lot worse, Grace thinks immediately. For a start, it genuinely _is_ a twin room, not, as she had secretly started to fear, a double. Very definitely two separate single beds, with a wide and nicely significant gap between them. Two beds, two uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs, a long, built-in Formica counter with a large unframed mirror screwed to the wall above it, a cut-price television, a basic but serviceable-looking couch, and a couple of other useful utilitarian odds and ends. Plus, she notes, an empty hanging space, and a narrow door to the clean but somewhat cramped internal bathroom. Plain, functional, and every bit as cheap and cheerful as Boyd darkly predicted. But warm and dry.

"Lovely," he says with grim distaste as he follows her in. "I think I'd be more comfortable sleeping in the car."

"Don't let me stop you."

"Trust me, if it wasn't so damned cold out there, I'd seriously consider it."

Grace takes off her coat and hangs it up. Over her shoulder, she queries, "So… would you like to waste time squabbling over who has which bed, or shall we actually try to behave like sensible adults for two minutes…?"

-oOo-

"This is a bit surreal, isn't it?" she asks a while later. It's largely a rhetorical question. She's given up trying to watch the late news. The picture on the small television screen keeps freezing, jumping and pixelating, presumably due to the heavy snow that's still falling relentlessly outside.

"That's one way of looking at it," Boyd mutters. He's standing by the window, glaring out at the night through a narrow gap in the curtains. "It's getting worse out there, you know."

Grace hesitates, staring contemplatively at the back of his head, then mentally squares her shoulders and plunges in with, "Boyd…?"

He looks round at her, expression faintly quizzical. "What?"

"I realise that you're not at all happy about this, but in this weather trying to get back to London tonight would have been stupidly dangerous."

"Yeah, I know."

"Well, do you think we could declare a truce, then?"

Boyd abandons his vigil and raises his eyebrows at her. "A truce? We're not at war, are we?"

"No, but you're behaving like – "

"A bear with a sore head?" he suggests. He sighs as he drops down onto the small couch next to her. It creaks ominously under the additional weight. "Oh, come _on_ , Grace. How long have we known each other? Yeah, I'm royally pissed off, but you know damned well it doesn't mean a thing. Look at us. We're stuck in a fucking blizzard in some crap hotel right in the middle of bloody nowhere…"

Somewhat mournfully, Grace says, "Well, at least _you_ have a change of clothes."

A rueful shake of the head. "No, I have an oily old sweatshirt that's apparently been festering in the back of my car for months, and whatever's lurking in my sports bag."

"You're still _way_ ahead of me."

"Ah," he responds with a knowing grin, "but _you_ have the entire contents of your handbag at your disposal. And don't try to kid me that you haven't got everything up to and including the kitchen sink stashed away in there."

Despite herself, Grace chuckles. He's not far off the mark. There are all sorts of curious and useful things hidden away in her overly-large bag. Sadly, however, the contents don't actually include any of the traditional necessities for an unanticipated night away from home. Dwelling unhappily on the lack, she then glowers at the leather holdall carelessly abandoned by the foot of one of the beds. "I bet you've even got a _toothbrush_ in there."

Boyd grins. Exasperatingly. "What can I say, Grace? I was a Boy Scout."

It's too good an opportunity to miss, given that she knows that the tiny cluster of amenities on the other side of the frozen parking area will almost certainly include a few standard motorway shops and franchised cafes; a small island of over-priced civilisation in the bleak, snowy wasteland. She smiles in what she hopes is a winsome manner. "Then you'll know all about helping old ladies, won't you?"

He sighs again. "This is going to involve me going back out into the cold, isn't it?"

-oOo-

In the event, Boyd is gone for well over half an hour, and when he finally returns he is wet, cold, and extremely bad-tempered. But he is also carrying a small plastic carrier bag which he unceremoniously dumps in her lap. "You owe me big time for this, Grace, just remember that. It's evil out there, and it's starting to look like a bloody refugee camp. There are unhappy parents and screaming kids everywhere, and there's hardly anything I'd classify as remotely fit for human consumption to eat. And I'm _sure_ the fucking bastards are profiteering."

Contemplatively, she says, "I wonder how far it is to the local shops…"

Boyd shakes his head. "No. Forget it. I'm _not_ going out there again. You can just damn well make do with what you've got."

"My father used to say things like that when he took us camping as kids," Grace murmurs, and the distant memory causes her mouth to quirk in a slight, fond smile.

He grimaces. "Oh God, please don't tell me I'm in for a whole night of 'back in the good old days' nostalgia…"

Smirking back, she says, "There are a lot of hours between now and the morning, you know, Boyd."

"And I'm going to sleep through most of them. I'm going to bed."

Despite the distraction of the tantalising and highly inappropriate images that momentarily chase through her mind, Grace can't help challenging, "Go on then."

Boyd's reply is an immediate and haughty, "You really think I'm stripping off in front of you? Think again, Grace. I can quite happily live without the subsequent piss-taking for the rest of my bloody life."

Deliberately raising her eyebrows at him, she says, "I'd never have pegged you as the shy type."

With a truly exceptional amount of grim dignity, he retreats to the bathroom, taking his small holdall with him. And it's only once he's gone that Grace starts to really think properly about the stark practicalities of her own situation. Sleeping in her clothes is not an attractive proposition. Sleeping… not in her clothes… is also not an attractive proposition. Not whilst sharing a room. With him. She's still trying to decide which of the two alternatives is worse when Boyd reappears. He doesn't look at her, doesn't say a word, simply hangs up his sober grey suit next to her coat, and pads barefoot past her to the bed nearest the window with the determined air of a man who is not going to make eye-contact under any circumstances. Though in reality there's very little unfamiliar flesh exposed to her amused scrutiny. Aside from his bare legs – and much to her chagrin Grace can't quite help noticing that those long legs are surprisingly muscular. She blinks; inwardly chastises herself for her folly.

It appears that Boyd is intending to sleep in his shirt and undershorts. Which will certainly ruin the haphazard plan she's been tentatively formulating. Before he can actually get into his chosen bed, she tries a diffident, "Boyd…?"

The reply is a preoccupied, "Hmm?"

Abnormally self-conscious, and thoroughly despising herself for it, Grace mumbles, "Um… do you think I could…?"

He looks round at her with an uncharacteristic amount of patient courtesy. And for once she's incredibly pleased at just how sharp he is, just how quick he can be at picking up on things not voiced. Sounding fatalistic he says, "You quite literally want the shirt off my damned back now, I suppose?"

She allows a small, embarrassed smile. "Please."

"Thought so," Boyd says, already unfastening buttons.

-oOo-

Inevitably, the moment they are both settled and the lights are off, the bone-crushing weariness drops away and is replaced by a far-too-awake restlessness. Grace lies motionless, staring up into the darkness as she listens to the impatient can't-quite-get-comfortable noises coming from the other bed; noises that sound far too loud in the quiet, oddly muffled stillness that has fallen due to the snow. She's tempted to complain, but silently grits her teeth instead. Boyd did, after all, go back out into the snow for her, and she is, after all, wearing his shirt. Which is definitely a mixed blessing, given that every time she moves it's the tantalising scent of his expensive cologne that gently wafts over her. Not just of his cologne, either, but she's doing her best not to think about that. Nor about how warm the shirt still was from the heat of his body when she first slipped it on.

There was a time, she grudgingly admits to herself, when she simply wouldn't have been able to cope with tonight's strange and unexpected situation. A time when she would certainly have viewed the snow and ice, and the treacherous road conditions as an infinitely safer proposition than spending a single night alone in a small hotel room with Peter Boyd. But, she tells herself, an awful lot of water has passed beneath that particular bridge since that time. It's still hardly the best of situations, admittedly, but Grace thinks she can cope with it. Though she really doesn't want to think about the mischievous and extensive interrogation they will undoubtedly be subjected to by Eve and Stella when they do finally make it back to London.

Don't think about it. Don't think about _any_ of it. That's unquestionably the safest course of action.

There's a disgruntled mutter from her right, and the unmistakable sound of a pillow being angrily punched into submission. Unable to remain silent any longer, she finally grumbles, "Do you have to fidget _quite_ so much?"

More aggressive pillow-thumping noises. Then a sulky growl of, "Can't sleep."

She sighs – loudly and pointedly. "I've always said that you need to learn some relaxation techniques, Boyd."

The answer is unintelligible, but it doesn't sound at all polite.

Finally, though, near-silence falls. If she listens hard, Grace can just hear him breathing, slow and rhythmic, and despite everything the reassuring sound eventually lulls her into a quiet doze. She isn't aware of it, but just minutes later she is soundly asleep.

-oOo-

The next morning she wakes gently enough, but as she becomes fully aware it takes Grace a moment to identify the strange, barely audible noise emanating from her right. When she recognises it for what it is she smiles to herself. It's a distinctive but inconsequential noise; a very masculine noise, one that she hasn't heard for a long, long time – the quiet, bristly sound of morning stubble being slowly and reflectively scratched. She turns over cautiously, pausing to make quite sure none of the buttons on the borrowed white shirt have worked themselves loose overnight.

On the bed on the other side of the welcome divide between them, an only partially-covered Boyd is lying on his back, gazing up at the ceiling, seemingly deeply lost in thought. And, yes, Grace notes, one hand is idly rubbing at the visible silvery stubble that's already starting to merge with his neat goatee beard. There's a considerable amount of bare shoulder and chest on display, but Grace studiously ignores any rogue thoughts that mischievously attempt to head in that particular direction. Clearing her throat, she inquires, "Sleep well?"

She waits for him to lie, to grumpily inform her he's been lying awake all night – despite the incontrovertible evidence of gentle snoring every time she stirred – but he looks over at her, offers a slight grin and replies, "Like the dead."

"What time is it?"

He checks his watch. "Just past seven."

She nods, says with some satisfaction, "We should be able to make it back to London by lunchtime, then."

Not moving, he agrees, "Let's hope so. I have a meeting with the Clarke woman from the CPS at three."

Grace chuckles, amused by his undisguised antipathy. Christine Clarke is abrasive and formidable, and it's widely suspected that she has rather more than a purely professional interest in Boyd. Innocently, she says, "Christine? She likes you, you know."

Boyd's reply is dry. "I know she does. Rather too much for comfort."

Fascinated by the unexpected response, Grace quirks an intrigued eyebrow at him. "Really?"

Boyd glances across at her again. "Really. Whenever our paths cross I always get the impression she's looking at me and imagining me stripped, hogtied, and served up as the main course."

The vision conjured by his words is both entertaining and startling. Her chuckle becomes an unrestrained laugh. "And you're _far_ too meek and mild to be able to defend yourself from her, of course."

Boyd scowls. "She frightens the bloody life out of me, Grace. It's like being sexually harassed by an over-amorous bulldog."

"She's sexually harassing you?" She really can't suppress further laughter. "Oh, God… I'd pay good money to see that."

"I bet you would, too," he says, but his tone is mild. He levers himself up into a sitting position and runs a hand through his tousled silver hair. Against all her wishes, Grace does not miss the way that surprisingly well-defined muscles move smoothly under pale skin. It's very definitely time they were giving serious thought to getting out of this cramped, intimate room, she thinks. For the sake of her sanity, if nothing else. Evidently blissfully unaware of the nature of her thoughts, Boyd slowly gets out of bed and stretches, flexing his back and shoulders before padding over to the window. The moment he opens the curtains even a crack, a very cold, very bright light floods the room.

"Still snowing," he reports, laconic as ever.

Not at all what Grace wants to hear. Frowning, she asks, "How bad does it look?"

Boyd glances over his shoulder at her. "Put it this way, it's as still as the grave, and all I can see in every direction is snow."

"Will we make it out of here this morning?"

He shrugs noncommittally. "We might, but it won't help if the roads are closed – which, by the look of it, they almost certainly are."

Grace groans. "Please don't tell me we're stranded here…"

"All right," Boyd says, staring out of the window, "I won't."

-oOo-

 _Continued..._


	3. Stranded

**THREE – Stranded**

"It could be worse," Grace says, trying for a stoical pragmatism she really doesn't feel as she surveys the wintry scene outside the hotel for herself. It's quite clear that they won't be going anywhere for at least the next few hours, possibly for much longer. The snow is still falling heavily in big, fluffy flakes, and the strong easterly wind is turning it into a dense blizzard. Under different circumstances it would be an entrancing scene.

Reflected in the glass, Boyd raises his head to glare at her just for a moment. "How? How exactly could this be _worse_?"

Clutching at straws, she offers, "Well, at least we're not stuck somewhere in the car."

His head drops back onto the pillow, and the only reply is a discontented snort. It's clear he's just as happy about the situation as she is – if for very different reasons. Boyd wants to be back in London and back at his desk, and she… Well, all Grace really wants is to be somewhere else; somewhere a long, long way away from the small hotel room that feels as if it is becoming ever-smaller by the moment. She's not sure if she's pleased or not by Boyd's surly retreat back under the covers. She's about to offer further attempts at optimism when he grumbles, "We're never going to live this down, you know."

She turns to face him. "What, getting stuck in a blizzard?"

Mostly buried under the duvet, Boyd grimaces. "Sharing a bloody hotel room, Grace."

Evidently he's every bit as aware of the over-enthusiastic rumour mill as she is. She tries her best to sound nonchalant. "I won't tell if you don't."

"I'm putting it on expenses. They'll find out."

"Don't put it on expenses, then."

"It's against all my principles to pay for such a crap hotel out of my own damned pocket, Grace."

She doubts he's joking. Boyd has worked hard for everything he has, and over the years he has quietly cultivated some extremely expensive tastes in everything from whiskey to women. It's always amused her far more than it should, his penchant for everything from designer suits and bespoke shirts to luxury cars and Swiss watches. Admittedly they share a common interest in good food and wine, but that aside, Grace views his taste for the better things in life as just another of his eccentricities, an obvious foible to be gently mocked whenever she gets half a chance. Still, she's beginning to share his aversion for their small, bland hotel room. Just not for the same reasons.

Collecting her phone from the bedside table, she tries in vain for several frustrating minutes to get even a single bar of signal. Disgusted by her failure, she tries switching the television on. The reception is no better than it was the preceding night, the picture freezing and pixelating, any snatches of speech indecipherable. Giving up, she says, "I suppose they might know what's going on at the front desk." Boyd grunts but shows no sign of moving. Glaring at the back of his half-buried head, she sits down on the edge of her bed. "I said – "

"I heard what you said," he informs her, rolling over onto his back again and returning the glare, "and I'm reluctantly assuming it was some kind of euphemistic suggestion that I should get up and go and find out."

"Not necessarily. Though now you come to mention it…"

"Why do _I_ have to go?" Boyd demands, the question accusing.

"You're the driver," she tells him, "so it makes sense for you to go."

"You're the damned navigator."

"Oh, I am _not_. I'm many things, Boyd, but I'm not your navigator. If I ever _dared_ to tell you to turn left somewhere, you'd immediately turn right just to be bloody-minded. Tell me I'm wrong."

He glowers at her again. "Shut up, Grace."

-oOo-

In the end they go together, and the news is not good. Their stretch of the motorway is still closed, and is likely to remain so until either the weather improves significantly or the snow ploughs and gritters make enough of an impression for the route to be considered passable. Neither is likely to happen in the next few hours, they are told, which doesn't improve either of their moods. Squabbling tetchily, they embark on a reluctant foraging expedition, and even though they manage to find and consume a meagre breakfast at one of the low-end motorway-chain restaurants, it doesn't improve matters much. Faced with the minor hell of the noisy and over-populated services, they retreat back to the hotel room where they only have each other to get exasperated with.

"This is all _your_ fault," Grace accuses somewhat unjustly as she takes position at the window again. It's still snowing, and what little she can see of the sky is dark and cloudy suggesting there will be no reprieve in the near future. "Spence and Eve volunteered to go, but no, you insisted it had to be _us_."

"Oh, so you didn't send me half-a-dozen bloody emails suggesting a one-day conference on ritual abuse cases would be good for your professional development?"

"I didn't expect you to _agree_."

"Well, it's a bit bloody late to tell me you were just being cussed," Boyd growls back.

"All these years, and you couldn't work that out for yourself?"

Clad in his suit trousers and a very crumpled grey polo shirt embroidered on the left breast with the Metropolitan Police Tennis Club crest, Boyd stretches out on his bed, hands clasped behind his head. "I swear, Grace, if you keep this up, West Midlands Police are going to be investigating reports of a female forensic psychologist unexpectedly found buried alive in several feet of snow and ice."

Smirking, she shakes her head. "Trust me, they'll be far too busy trying to find out who on earth could have smothered a middle-aged Detective Superintendent while he was asleep."

He snorts. "You're welcome to try…"

Grace ignores him and goes back to staring at the falling snow. It's been years since she's seen such a sudden and intense freeze, and she finds herself asking, "Do you remember the winter of 'sixty-three? They say it was the coldest winter for two hundred years."

"Mm," is the disinterested reply from behind her. He surprises her by then continuing, "I remember going sledging in Greenwich Park. Broke my damned wrist colliding with another kid. My brother thought it was hilarious and just carried on enjoying himself while I trudged home. We waited for bloody hours at the hospital. Place looked like a warzone."

"The day of the worst blizzard I was supposed to be going to the pictures with Colin Bulmer," Grace muses, casting her mind back. She can still picture the tall, lanky youth that her parents took an instant dislike to. She winces inwardly, remembering their stoic disapproval. "But the roads were treacherous, the buses weren't running, and just about everywhere was closed anyway."

"Colin Bulmer, eh?"

"He was seen as quite a catch," she says, turning to look at him. "He went straight from school to work at his dad's printing firm. All the girls in our street fancied him. He had a Lambretta."

"Says it all."

The disparaging note in his voice needles her, makes her demand, "Oh? So what did _you_ have, then? A Vespa?"

Still lying flat out on his chosen bed, Boyd smirks. "Grace, I hate to break it to you, but at the time I was _twelve_."

It's a depressing thought. Irritated, she challenges, "Later on, then? I bet it was a Vespa, wasn't it? All style and no substance."

He makes a disapproving noise. "Hardly. Some of us had _proper_ motorcycles."

The vivid image that pops fully-formed into her mind is both intriguing and compelling. Deadpan, she says, "I see, and what exactly constitutes a 'proper' motorcycle?"

"A battered old BSA," is the laconic reply. Boyd sits up, puts his feet on the floor. "Bought it cheap from a guy in Dagenham the minute I turned sixteen. My mother had a blue fit."

"I bet."

"Eventually traded it in against a second-hand Triumph Bonneville. Couldn't afford to buy a car."

"All these years," she says, "and I never knew you were hiding an inner biker, Boyd. You wait until I tell Eve."

His expression is somewhere between a grimace and a grin as he shakes his head. "It'll be a cold day in hell before I deign to call that flimsy heap of Japanese crap of hers a motorcycle, trust me."

Turning back to gaze out of the window at the wintry scene outside, Grace says, "The first vehicle I ever owned was a bright red Morris Minor."

"Figures. What was he like, then? Colin Bulmer?"

She glances over her shoulder, surprised by the inquiry. Old memories stir, and none of them are happy. Knowing he will push until he gets a reply that satisfies him, she says, "Good-looking. Confident. But the reality didn't live up to expectation. He was just a local lad, nothing special really. I expect he's retired and has half-a-dozen grandchildren by now. Why?"

Boyd shrugs. "Just curious. We don't often have the time to just chat like this, do we?"

She looks at him askance. "Chat? I didn't think you actually knew the meaning of the word."

"Harsh, Grace. Very harsh."

"Hm." Grace shakes her head. "You know, I think you're genuinely starting to go a bit stir-crazy."

He grins, showing teeth. "Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?"

"I would never attempt to give you my professional opinion on your mental state, Boyd."

The grin disappears immediately. "Well, that's not strictly true, is it?"

The slight edge to his voice makes her glance at him again. He hasn't moved, is still sitting on the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his thighs. He stares straight back at her in complete silence, finally raising one sardonic eyebrow. When he does, Grace understands, knows exactly what he's referring to. _Repressed, depressed and in denial…_ Bitter words that she threw at him in anger; words it seems that neither of them has forgotten. For once, though, she's not in the mood to attempt to placate him simply because it's easier than dealing with his moodiness, his temper. Harsher than she intends, she says, "You're going to hold that against me forever, aren't you?"

"What?"

"You know damn well what."

Boyd stands up, the movement somehow spare, economical. "Touched a nerve, did I?"

"I'm not having this conversation with you," is her decisive retort. "Not while we're stuck here together for God knows how long. If you can't let it go after all this time, that's your problem, not mine."

He moves to stand beside her at the window, and for some reason she's more aware than normal of the height difference between them. He doesn't look at her as he says, "Oh, this is bloody ridiculous. This is the twenty-first century, for fuck's sake – how can the whole country grind to a halt because of a bit of snow?"

"I assume that's a rhetorical question?"

"I've had enough of this," he says, starting into movement.

She turns to watch him, not altogether surprised when he starts to shrug into his long dark coat. "Where are you going?"

"To see if I can find out anything about a possible alternative route out of here that might just be passable."

"Well, there's obviously isn't one," Grace points out, "or there wouldn't be so many people still stranded here, would there? Why can't you just be patient and wait for the Highways Agency, or whoever, to open the motorway again?"

He glares at her. "I'll be back in a while."

At least he doesn't slam the door behind him. Grace sighs and moves to settle on the small couch. She thinks she understands – Boyd is getting increasingly stressed and irritable, and it seems they both know that it won't take much to spark his ferocious temper. He's been even more volatile than usual since losing his son, and she believes the phenomenon has a lot to do with his complete inability to cope in any healthy way with the sheer depth of his grief. Everything he feels and can't express, all the sorrow, bitterness, and guilt that surrounds Luke's death, explodes out in other directions, in displaced wild fury with things that don't really matter. Yet his abrupt departure is far more to do with him actually recognising that he needs some time and space to regain his equanimity than it is to do with hunting down a non-existent solution to their predicament, which she gladly accepts as some kind of progress.

Half-heartedly Grace starts to flick through the glossy pages of one of the female-orientated lifestyle magazines she purchased on a whim during their earlier excursion. Not really her sort of thing, not usually – but it's got to be less boring than watching the seemingly endless flurries of snow, or staring pointlessly at nothing until Boyd calms down and decides to return.

-oOo-

He's back much sooner than she might ever have reasonably expected. Less than quarter of an hour has elapsed when he lets himself back into their hotel room, but any scathing remark Grace might have voiced regarding his quick return dies away when she looks up and sees the still-bleeding gash above his left eye. Dark bruising is already starting to show on his temple, and she's on her feet and stepping towards him almost before she realises it. "Boyd? What on earth happened? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he mutters. "Slipped on the ice and cracked my head on one of those damned concrete bollards."

"Let me see," she orders, ignoring his half-hearted attempts to fend her off.

Shrugging out of his long coat, Boyd attempts to keep his distance. "It's nothing; don't make a fuss."

"For God's sake… you're dripping blood all over the carpet." Grace shakes her head and adds with some asperity, "Stop being a martyr, Boyd, and just sit down and let me have a look."

He glowers for a moment, resentment at her waspish tone of voice quite clear, but then collapses heavily onto one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs, muttering under his breath as he does so. Grace pretends not to hear the grumbled curses and complaints, and sets about examining the wound. Not as bad as it could be, but very bloody all the same. "You'll live, but you're probably going to have the headache from hell," she pronounces. "Did you hurt anything else?"

"Only my pride."

The wry way he says it makes her smile. Cautioning him not to move, she heads for the bathroom and uses cold water to soak the washcloth from his depleted sports kit. Wringing it out as much as possible, she returns to find an unusually obedient Boyd still sitting exactly where she left him. He frowns at her determined approach, however, says, "Oh, no. No, Grace. _No_. You're not Florence-bloody-Nightingale, so leave well alone."

"Close your eyes and think of England," she orders, advancing on him with the cloth.

His eyebrows rise at that, the instinctive reflex causing a wince of pain and a renewed trickle of blood from the slowly congealing wound. Grumpy to the last, he growls, "Fuck's _sake_ … Oh, just get it over with, then."

"Look up," she instructs, and when Boyd obeys she begins to dab carefully at the ragged gash. To her chagrin, however, their necessary proximity is uncomfortably distracting. She can feel the odd, barely-restrained tension in him, can feel the heat of his body radiating through his thin polo shirt. Realising that he's gazing steadily at her doesn't help her equilibrium one little bit. It must be a trick of the light, something to do with the way his face is angled towards the window, because at such close quarters his eyes, usually so impenetrably dark in appearance, show fascinating touches of green and gold that Grace has somehow failed to notice before. He's still watching her, apparently oblivious to the increasingly dangerous course of her thoughts.

"Enjoying yourself?" Boyd inquires.

"Immensely." Her reply is deliberately tart.

"You're not into the idea of playing doctors and nurses, then?"

Grace isn't proud of the way her heartrate instantly increases at the deliberate innuendo. Dabbing harder than is strictly necessary at the wound, she's mildly horrified to hear her own voice say, "With you, you mean?"

The slow, crooked grin Boyd gives her is incorrigibly wicked, forcibly reminding her of the long-ago days when idle flirtation between them was a harmless but thoroughly enjoyable daily sport. "If only, Grace. If only."

Her mind seizes on the words, worries at them, thoroughly dissects and analyses them in search of a possible subtext hidden beneath the familiar banter. He's still looking straight at her, but for once she finds she can't read him at all. It's infuriating, just how enigmatic he can be, especially when she's almost sure that –

"Ouch," Boyd complains. "Steady on, Grace."

Belatedly realising that she's holding the cloth far too tightly against the oozing cut, she forces herself to relax. "Sorry."

"For a moment there I thought you were exercising a sadistic streak I knew nothing about."

"Don't tempt me," she tells him. "You know, ordinarily I'd insist on taking you straight to the nearest hospital to get this looked at."

"It's nothing, I told you. Just a slight bang on the head."

Grace rolls her eyes skywards. "Thick as your skull is, Boyd, head injuries can be tricky; you know that as well as I do. Concussion – "

"I'm not concussed," Boyd interrupts.

"You could be."

"I'm not."

"How do you know?" she challenges.

"I just _do_. Have you finished poking about?"

"Not quite. Stop fidgeting." Her fingertips accidentally brush against his cheek and she's unprepared for the very real jolt the fleeting contact sends right through her. Inwardly cursing herself, Grace doesn't risk meeting his eye. They've got to get out of this confined space, she thinks with an edge of desperation, before all her old dreams and unrequited feelings can really –

Boyd turns his head, almost as if deliberately seeking to re-establish contact, and she starts in response, her heart pounding very fast. Their eyes lock, and for a moment she feels as if he's looking straight into her, past all the boundaries and defences, right into the fortified place where the guilty truth of how she really feels about him hides. She can feel the warm flush of blood rising in her cheeks, and as she pulls her hand back, he deftly captures her wrist, his fingers closing in a firm grip designed to hold not hurt. Time seems to be elongating, twisting into long threads capable of slowing everything around them to a crawl. Neither of them says a single word, they just stare at each other, something powerful but indefinable filling the silence with a dangerous, sparking tension. Boyd moves first, inclining his head to press his lips against her palm. Grace feels the delicate kiss like a brand, a mark being indelibly burnt into her skin. Before she can do anything, say anything, he swiftly releases his grip and stands up. It happens so fast, even in those few seconds of slowed-down time, that for a moment she's certain she imagined the whole thing.

"Thanks, Grace," he says, his voice gruff as he quickly moves away from her, "next time I'm in urgent need of a first-aider, I'll come straight to you instead of yelling for Eve."

Confused by what has just happened, her response is a dislocated, "You'd better take that shirt off and leave it to soak in cold water. It'll be completely ruined, otherwise."

Boyd frowns, looks down at the garment in question, as if realising for the first time that it's blood-stained in several places. It might be the result of the head-injury, or it might be that he's just as off-kilter as she is, either way he seems bemused as he grunts in reply. As he turns away he does exactly as she suggested, apparently either indifferent to her presence, or somehow not consciously thinking about it. The subtle play of muscle in his back and shoulders as he strips off the bloodied shirt makes Grace look away hurriedly, her heart-thumping in her chest. Only when the bathroom door closes behind him does she realise just how painfully her fingernails are digging into her palms.

-oOo-

 _Continued…_


	4. Under Pressure

**FOUR – Under Pressure**

"It's ridiculous," she snaps, aware that the weary-looking young woman behind the reception desk doesn't deserve to bear the brunt of her ire, but not quite able to rein in her acute frustration, "this is _England_ , for heaven's sake, not some remote wasteland somewhere above the arctic circle. How can we _possibly_ still be unable to get out of here?"

"I'm sorry, madam," the receptionist says, her tone indicating she's said the same thing many, many times since she started her shift, "but you can see for yourself how bad it is out there. The official travel advice for most of the Midlands is to only attempt essential travel, and then only if there's absolutely no alternative. They opened part of the motorway further down for an hour or so this morning, but conditions were so bad…"

"You obviously got into work," Grace points out, "so not all the roads must be impassable."

"I've been here since yesterday," the woman explains. "All the staff on duty have. Even those big four-by-four things haven't been able to get up the slope to the exit, and even if they could, the road beyond is closed due to drifting snow. I'm sorry, madam, but for now I have no possible solution to offer you."

"My colleague and I urgently need to get back to London. There must be _some_ way out of here, surely?"

Another shake of the head. "I'm sorry."

The same litany over and over again. It doesn't matter which way Grace turns, or who she speaks to, the answer is always the same – until the snow finally stops falling and some real progress can be made on clearing the roads, those who are currently stranded are likely to remain so. Stranded, and mostly incommunicado. Sometimes the falling snow relents enough to allow a brief window of marginal phone signal, or more than two minutes of clear television picture, but in the main her world has dwindled to a small, unlovely hotel room, a few stretches of bland corridor, and a reception area that is starting to resemble a busy homeless shelter.

With nothing achieved, Grace grudgingly heads back to the purgatory of four cream walls and a man who's every bit as infuriating as he is obtuse. A man whose dark mood has rapidly deteriorated even further due to the grim onset of the severe headache she predicted. When she walks back into their room he's lying prone and shirtless on his bed, and any small hope she might have had that he might have fallen asleep during her absence is instantly dispelled by the displeased growling noise that follows the sound of her carefully shutting the door. A moment later, however, he raises his head enough to peer at her. "Well?"

"Same old story," she admits with a sigh. "No-one's going anywhere, and no-one knows anything."

"At this rate we're going to starve to bloody death before the roads are clear."

Dropping down onto the couch, she says, "Someone downstairs told me there's a rumour going round that one of the supermarkets is going to let its truck drivers unload their perishable cargo for general consumption if there's no change in the weather by tonight."

Boyd groans. "Oh, great. We can look forward to surviving on mushy Israeli strawberries and stale pre-packed sandwiches for the duration. Tell me this is all just a horrible nightmare, Grace, please. One long fucking horrible nightmare that I'm going to wake up from very soon."

"If it is, I'm having exactly the same nightmare," she assures him. He buries his head back into the pillow without another word, and for a moment she studies his bare back, her eyes following the indent of his spine up to his broad shoulders. Only partly to quell her unruly thoughts, she asks "How are you feeling now?"

The reply is not the barrage of sullen complaint Grace expects. Instead it's a quiet, "Rough."

Concerned, she gets up again and moves across to him, perching hesitantly on the edge of his bed. Boyd turns his head in response, but doesn't attempt to raise it. One dark eye regards her with uncharacteristic apathy. A surge of different emotions floods through her, compassion and sympathy by far the strongest amongst them. It's some kind of inherent nurturing instinct rather than conscious choice that makes her stretch out a hand to gently stroke his hair. The immediate shock of what she's doing is lost in the rush of tactile feedback that chases along her nerves. So dense and soft, the ruffled silvery strands, and as she registers the fact, some part of her also registers that Boyd hasn't flinched away from her in surprise or distaste as she might have pessimistically expected if she'd had any time to think about her actions.

Pulse racing, she tries to block out all the desperate questions and wild speculations that pour into her mind. _Don't think, just do._ He's been her friend and colleague for years, after all, so why shouldn't she offer him a touch of comfort when he's in pain? Surely that's just an ordinary human reaction, not a dangerous transgression that –

 _Don't think._ Forcing herself not to give into the impulse to guiltily snatch back her hand, Grace asks, "Do you feel sick? Giddy?"

"No. My head's pounding, that's all."

Deciding that it doesn't sound as if he's concussed – still her biggest fear – Grace looks at her watch. "It's too soon for you to have any more painkillers. Maybe you should try going to sleep for a bit?"

"In too much fucking pain. Feels like someone's drilling into my skull."

Realising that she's still absent-mindedly stroking his hair, she hastily withdraws her hand with a grimace. "Sorry."

"Don't stop on my account. It's very… soothing."

 _What's happening to us?_ a very clear, very apprehensive voice in her head asks. _What on earth are we doing?_ …But the temptation to continue is far too strong. It appears that Boyd's telling the truth, because it does seem to have a very soothing effect on him. Fascinated, she watches as he visibly starts to relax, eyes closing, shoulders dropping as he becomes increasingly torpid. Suddenly bold, she lets her hand continue onwards on the next down-stroke, gently traversing the nape of his neck and going lower. The only response is a sleepy mutter, a far from discontented sound. His skin is warm, very smooth over the easily discernible contours of bone and relaxed muscle. Emboldened by the continuing lack of complaint, Grace starts to rub his shoulders in unhurried, lazy circles, the slow movement of her hand completely at odds with the racing pace of her thoughts as she struggles to process the reality of the moment. The rate of Boyd's breathing changes, gets slower and slower until she's left in no doubt that he's quietly drifted off to sleep.

Satisfied, Grace doesn't move for a long, long time, just sits and watches him, her now stationary hand resting lightly on his back.

-oOo-

The light gradually fades out of the afternoon as Boyd sleeps and she reads. When it becomes a real struggle to pick out the words on the page, Grace gets up from the couch and switches on one of the bedside lights. Enough light to softly illuminate the room but not enough to disturb him, or so she hopes. It's still snowing, but half-heartedly now, and she wonders if the tenacious bad weather is finally passing over. It's a shock to realise that it's still less than twenty-four hours since their original journey home was interrupted. It feels as if they've been stranded for days. Weeks, even. With a slight sigh, she quietly pulls the curtains closed, shutting out the rest of the world. At some point while he slept, Boyd rolled onto his side, and when she turns her back on the window she's startled to find herself being watched.

"Feeling any better?" she asks, in lieu of anything more original.

"Much." He shifts over onto his back, puts his hands behind his head. "What time is it?"

"Nearly five."

"Still snowing?"

"Yes. Not as heavily." To Grace, the exchange seems banal, awkward. Perhaps it's just her imagination. Returning to the couch seems to be the best idea, so she does just that, once again picking up one of the increasingly tedious magazines. If Boyd wants to talk, she reasons, he will talk. Otherwise he's probably best left alone with his thoughts. It's difficult to concentrate on subject matter that really doesn't interest her, however, and the silence begins to take on a heavy significance that she hopes she's imagining. Risking a glance up, she finds him still watching her. Unnerved by his steady, contemplative gaze, she challenges, "What?"

The reply is serene. "Nothing."

She purses her lips for a moment, mildly irritated by his apparent imperturbability. "I know you too well to fall for that, Boyd. What's going on in that head of yours, hmm? What are you thinking about?"

He doesn't move a muscle. "You."

" _Me_?" Disconcerted and more than a touch uncomfortable, Grace frowns. "Why? What are you thinking about me for?"

"I'm not allowed to think about you?"

Flustered, she shrugs. "Of course you are, but… Oh, I don't know. It's just a bit… creepy… being stared at like that."

"'Creepy'?" Boyd snorts. "I've been called a lot of things in my time, but that's definitely a new one."

"I didn't say _you_ were creepy, I said… Oh, forget it." She sighs. Determinedly changing the subject, she asks, "Are you hungry?"

"Depends on what delicacies we've got left from this morning's outing."

Not much is the realistic answer. "Chocolate. Some disturbingly-shaped jelly sweets that don't look entirely suitable for children; a couple of those horrific just-add-boiling-water-and-stir instant meal things, and – "

"Stop," Boyd interrupts, sitting up. "You're seriously offending my gastronomic sensibilities, Grace."

"Says the man who'll cheerfully eat from any old snack wagon parked at the edge of the road."

"Detective's privilege." He stretches, flexes his shoulders, and gets to his feet. Grace watches as he peers round the edge of the curtain at the bleak, frozen scene outside and waits for him to start complaining. He doesn't. He turns away from the window, moves to lean against the inbuilt Formica counter that's now untidily littered with rubbish, magazines and miscellaneous personal possessions. He puts his hands in his trouser pockets, his pose nonchalant. "What the hell are you reading?"

"Currently?" It's a struggle not to fixate on his bare torso, on his smooth chest, on the intriguingly hirsute spot just above his belt buckle. Inwardly reproving herself in the sternest possible fashion, Grace focuses on the page before her. "A highly intellectual article about some minor celebrity I've never heard of, and her broken engagement to some chap from one of those reality television things."

"Dear God." He sounds both amused and appalled. "I should arrest you right here and now for aiding and abetting a serious crime against literature."

Releasing her hold on the magazine she raises both hands, presenting him with her wrists, "It's a fair cop, guv. Be gentle with the handcuffs."

The dark eyes glint at her. "That's what all the nice girls say, Grace."

This time she does hold his gaze. "I bet."

Boyd grins at her for a moment, a study in sly mischief, and then he straightens up. "Well, I think I'll have a quick shower while you do the perfect hausfrau thing and prepare my dinner."

Feigning glacial distaste, Grace says, "As _if_. You can boil your own damn kettle."

-oOo-

With little to occupy them, the evening is dragging, and Boyd is in a bullish mood. Sprawled out on the couch while Grace sits on her bed with her feet comfortably drawn up, his expression is every bit as condescending as his tone as he says, "All I'm _saying_ is that offender profiling is not a magic bullet. Never has been, never will be. Detectives solve crimes, Grace, not profilers – however qualified, skilled and experienced. You know as well as I do that ninety-five percent of any investigation is tedious, methodical slog by over-worked and underpaid officers who might sometimes – _sometimes_ – be somewhat justified in resenting the way the media – "

"Here we go," she interrupts, "the entirely predictable rant about how people like _me_ steal the limelight away from poor, downtrodden coppers like _you_."

"Well, it's true. Thanks to the media, the general public have acquired a completely skewed idea of idea of how a criminal investigation actually works."

"But that doesn't negate the validity of profiling, does it?" Grace retorts, striving for patience. Not easy given Boyd's increasingly combative mood, and the stress and boredom of their continuing confinement. "You're making the mistake of mixing up two entirely different things. Either you're arguing the merits – or lack thereof – of profiling as an investigative tool _or_ you're voicing your concerns about the possible detrimental effects of all the exposure it's attracted over the last few years. There's absolutely no correlation between the two."

"Did I try to say that there was?" he challenges, sitting up straight. "And anyway, before you have a go at me, Grace, there's a fundamental flaw in your own damn argument."

"Which is?"

"If I actually thought offender profiling was complete bollocks, which is basically what you're accusing me of, you wouldn't still be on the bloody payroll, would you? Do you have any idea how much the Home Office charges me every month for your services?"

"Yes," she replies promptly, "because you seem to find it necessary to remind me every single time the Yard raps you over the knuckles for going over budget."

For a moment she's certain he's going to keep arguing – he usually does – but to her surprise he opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. They regard each other warily across the neutral space between them, and Grace finds herself wondering, not for the first time – "Why do I put up with you?"

Boyd's posture relaxes. "Because – much against your better judgement – you're actually quite fond of me."

"That must be it." She uncurls her legs and stands up. "Cup of tea before bed?"

"Words I never thought I'd hear you say," Boyd says, getting up himself. As Grace busies herself with the ridiculously small electric kettle and the depleted array of hotel-branded sachets and tiny containers, he once again leans up against the counter next to her, arms folded across his chest. At least he's wearing his now-dry polo shirt again. The bloodstains still show, but not as vividly. "But you'll never admit it, will you?"

"Admit what?" Grace asks, not looking at him. A faint, unpleasant prickle of something – apprehension? – creeps insidiously down the back of her neck.

Boyd's sigh is loud and impatient. "That you're fond of me. Keep up, Grace – you're supposed to be the one with all the brains."

Something about his condescending tone grates across her nerves. Something about his phrasing, too. Something that recalls so many other times when she's heard exactly the same thing from well-meaning people who don't realise that... Too sharply, she asks, "As opposed to…?"

He sounds amused. "Well, my brawn, obviously."

She still isn't looking at him as she mutters, "Brains, eh?"

"There's only one person in this room with a PhD, and I'm damned sure it's not me." A short pause precedes a considerably less humorous, "Grace…? What's the matter? What have I done now?"

"Nothing," she tells him truthfully, picking up a teaspoon. "You haven't done anything."

He's not easily fooled, and he snorts softly. "Why are you suddenly doing the glacier thing, then?"

"I'm not."

"Liar." Boyd plucks the spoon neatly from her grasp. "One minute you're fine, the next…"

She has no intention of explaining herself. Doesn't know that she actually could even if she wanted to. Little Grace, the bright, studious middle child, the one who's always sitting on her own poring over her books. Earnest Grace, the dutiful, committed student who's always ready to sacrifice her social life to help with research. The brainy one. The clever one. The plain, quiet one that Colin Bulmer only asked out to win a bet with his cruel, sniggering friends and their even more spiteful girlfriends. Sometimes, when she's forced to remember the sick feeling of disbelief and utter humiliation, it still stings fiercely, decades later. Boyd would never understand. _Could_ never understand. She's seen the old photographs, and as a teenager he was every bit as tall, athletic, and good-looking as she might have expected. Not the kind of lad to look twice at the mousey, bookish girl with big dreams of being the first member of her family to go to university. But also not the kind of lad, maybe, who would string a naïve, infatuated girl along for far too long just for a joke.

She doesn't want to think about it, talk about it. It still hurts, but the pain is still wrapped in a simmering rage, too. A rage Grace isn't keen to express. Aware that the edgy silence is stretching, she says, "I'm tired, Boyd. Just drop it, will you?"

Boyd shakes his head, his stubborn streak obviously piqued. "I was teasing you, Grace, that's all. Christ, if you don't know that by now…"

"Of course you were." She turns to face him head-on, the old anger beginning to flare. It manifests itself in bitter sarcasm. "Good old Grace, always such a great sport. So wonderfully calm, and so very, very clever. The one who got all the brains – "

"Hang on – "

" – and none of the beauty." The brittle, painful words slam into the already tense atmosphere and seem to shatter into dangerous shards on impact. A fragmentation grenade couldn't have done better.

There's a moment of complete silence. She glares at Boyd, daring him to say a word. He dares. He always does. "The beauty goes without saying, Grace."

She has no idea where the wild impulse to vent all the fury rising up inside her is coming from. Perhaps it's the inevitable consequence of their current situation, of their enforced proximity. Perhaps it's just a build-up of all the years of quiet resentment. Whatever it is, it makes her lash back hard with, "Don't you _dare_ patronise me, Boyd. Don't you bloody _dare_."

Her temper sparks his – hardly a surprise. He roars back, "Fuck's sake, I'm _not_. Come, _on_ – why the hell would I? If you don't know by now how I – "

The impulse to slap him is very strong. The impulse to kiss him even stronger. Grace does neither. Before Boyd can finish his tirade, she storms across the room to the small bathroom, jerks the door open with unnecessary force and then angrily slams it closed behind her. From the room beyond, there is nothing but silence.

-oOo-

 _Continued…_


	5. Flashpoint

_**A/N:** there is some content in this chapter that is classified by FFN as M-rated. Don't like, don't read._

* * *

 **FIVE – Flashpoint**

"Leave me _alone_." It feels like the hundredth time she's said it in the last five minutes. Staring at her reflection in the small bathroom mirror, Grace takes a deep breath and holds it for several seconds before exhaling slowly. Sooner or later she's going to have to unlock the door and face him, but for now she's more than happy for it to be later. Much later, if necessary, despite the discomfort and inconvenience of being shut away in such a tiny, stuffy space. No windows, of course, no fresh air, just the continual hum of the extractor fan linked to the light-switch.

"This is fucking stupid," Boyd's disembodied voice says. He still sounds angry and impatient, but the decibel level has fallen considerably. "You're being completely unreasonable, Grace."

Her reaction is childish, but it's heartfelt. "Good. Now you know what it feels like to be on the receiving end."

"Just open the bloody door, will you?"

"No. Go away."

"I can't, can I? I'm stuck here just like you, remember?"

Grace mutters to herself, the words an irrelevant litany of private complaint. She needs to stay angry. If she doesn't, an appalling clarity will start setting in, and she can't bear to think of the level of embarrassment it will bring with it. She already feels old, tired, and foolish, and the chances of her feeling any better about any of it any time soon are so microscopic that they might just as well be non-existent.

It's not even about him. Not really. Or, at least, not in the way Boyd probably thinks. Then, she's been wrong about what he thinks often enough before.

"Right," his gruff voice announces, "I've had enough of this. Either you open the fucking door, or I'm going to break it down."

If anything about the harsh declaration surprises her, it's that it's taken him so long to make it. Knowing she sounds just as weary as she feels, she replies, "Don't be stupid, Boyd."

"Why not? You're the one setting the precedent." Heavy silence. "Don't put it to the test, Grace, because you know I'll damn well do it."

He will. No doubt about it. He's got the impulsive temperament for it, and though he's not a young man, he's easily physically capable of it. The certain knowledge doesn't stop her from saying, "Just leave me alone. How many more times?"

"Stand clear," his stern voice instructs. Grace doesn't move. A couple of moments pass, then there's a loud, heavy impact against the door that reverberates right through the little bathroom. She doesn't know if he's kicked the door or simply shoulder-charged it, but either way, she's absolutely certain it won't withstand a second such hefty assault. If the lock doesn't give, the door itself will, and doubtless the damage will be considerable. Damage they will have to pay for.

"All right," she blurts out against her will. "All right, all _right_. Stop."

"Open the door, Grace."

The lack of any choice revives the white hot heat of her anger, and she's glad. Far better angry in the present than mortified by the past. Turning the lock, she snatches open the door and glares up at him. "Happy now?"

It's not a serious question, which is just as well, because Boyd does not look happy. Very far from it. He has that tight-jawed, flinty-eyed look he invariably gets just before he really loses his temper. "Well? What the _hell_ was that all about?"

Struggling to hold onto some vestige of composure, she grinds out, "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to _me_."

"Why?"

"Oh, for… Why do you bloody think?" he growls, his features set in an angry scowl.

Grace is too tired for it. Any of it. "I have no idea."

What happens next is a shock. Understatement. Boyd moves so fast she has no chance to react, and as her back collides hard with the bathroom doorframe, his mouth descends on hers. It's impossible for Grace to process what's happening in any rational, meaningful way. There's no thought beyond the recognition of the tremendous heat of his body, the firm hold he somehow has on her waist, and the rasp of coarse stubble against her check. Nothing beyond the startling knowledge that she's being very thoroughly and very assertively kissed. He's forceful, but he's not rough or clumsy, and she's very quickly kissing him back just as ferociously, her hands moving to his shoulders of their own accord, her fingertips digging hard into the tightly bunched muscle she finds there. How long the fierce, unexpected kiss lasts is uncertain, but when they do break apart, Grace realises she's not the only one who's breathing hard. It startles her, though, just how feral he momentarily looks; how intense his glittering dark eyes are as they stare down at her.

Still uncomfortably pinned against the doorframe, her thoughts racing, she can't do anything but stare back. No glib words present themselves for use, nor do any irate or reproving ones. In fact, Grace doesn't remember another time when she's been rendered quite so… inarticulate. It must only last for a fraction of a second, that stunned moment of silence, but it feels like a lifetime. Boyd's wary expression suggests he's trying to gauge her reaction, and whatever he thinks he sees, it's enough to make him release his hold on her and take a quick step back as he mumbles, "Sorry. _Christ_. Sorry, Grace."

For once it's instinct not intellect that drives her, pushing her forward so that the negligible gap between them disappears again, her hands immediately returning to his shoulders. No need for any words. The second kiss is every bit as urgent and uninhibited as the first, but this time Grace is not mentally reeling from shock, and she gives just as good as she gets, relishing every single second of it. The taste of him, the scent of him, the sheer power and unmitigated masculinity of him all encouraging her to recklessly give and take everything she can. If there's never another moment like this one, so be it, but Grace doesn't intend to live with any regrets about her part in it.

Somehow they're managing to move while still kissing, an almost drunken stumble of just a few steps, and then they're dropping down onto the nearest bed – hers – blindly snatching at each other's clothing, hands and mouths travelling over newly-exposed flesh in a wordless frenzy of carnality. It's not elegant, it's not gentle, and if Grace was able to spare the matter a passing thought, she'd likely conclude that it's probably not pretty, either, given how desperate they are, how maladroit they are in their reckless, uncoordinated efforts to get what they want as quickly as possible. She can feel how hard he is, how ready. It adds an extra frisson of triumph to her intense, aching need, one that makes her unashamedly arch up against him, the timeless invitation blatant. It's all so fast, so desperate, and not a single word is spoken, even when Boyd finally locks their bodies together with a grunt, and starts to move inside her.

The pace he sets is fast, much faster than Grace expects, but it doesn't matter; as wildly aroused as she is, his remorseless strength and speed works remarkably well for her, and when he shifts position slightly, deliberately increasing the amount of friction, it works even better. She bites his shoulder hard enough to make him swear in protest and surprise, and then drive himself deeper, harder, in direct retaliation, but there's little time for such erotic power games. They're both panting, both breaking out into a sweat as they get closer and closer to breaking point. Grace is only vaguely aware of the sounds they are making, the low moans and groans, the muttered curses and exclamations. Then there's nothing but the extreme onrush of sensation, nothing but the shuddering, ecstatic peak of selfish desire that completely eclipses everything else. She shakes, she swears, she gouges her nails into Boyd's back, and then she's mindless and lost for a few glorious seconds before Boyd suddenly braces sharply above her, her body finally beginning to relax as his shudders in fierce, increasingly short spasms.

Spent, he collapses onto her, his head tucking into the curve of her shoulder, and as her breathing begins to level out, Grace unconsciously threads her fingers through his hair. Happily drunk on endorphins, she's sated, content, and not yet able – or inclined – to think about anything.

"Fuck…" is all Boyd eventually manages, an emphatic mutter close to her ear. Succinct, at least. His body is hot and heavy, and when she tries to shift position beneath him, Grace discovers that they are tangled together in a complex knot of limbs and half-shed clothing, making independent movement near impossible. He lifts his head to look at her, and she's surprised by what she sees in his expression. Not chagrin, not smugness, not regret. Something much more encouraging, if immensely cautious and complicated. Before she can speak, he asks, "You okay?"

Ignoring stray muscular twinges and the odd touch of soreness, Grace nods. "Fine. You…? How's your head?"

"Pounding," Boyd admits with the merest hint of a sheepish grin. His voice is rough, husky. She likes it. "Christ, I feel like I've run a bloody marathon."

It might not be the most appropriate or flattering response, but she can't help herself. "Hardly – but it was quite an impressive sprint."

A touch of humour sparks in his eyes. "Only 'quite'?"

"Well, you know, for a man of your age…"

Boyd levers himself up onto his elbows, considerably reducing the amount of weight bearing down on her. Mock-affronted, he says, "Thanks a _lot_."

Grace chuckles, momentarily pleased when his retribution comes not in words, but in a kiss that's so gentle and affectionate that it stirs up a crazy mixture of hopes, dreams, and half-forgotten fantasies. Against her will, however, those jumbled thoughts and emotions start to pluck at her insecurities, and begin to spawn a restless and unwelcome edge of discontent, one that is only fuelled further by her earlier annoyance and her rapidly darkening perception of the evening's events.

"Why?" she asks suddenly, the question spurred by her increasing dissatisfaction. She's sure she knows the answer, but she needs to hear the words spoken aloud – by him.

For once Boyd doesn't bother to pretend to misunderstand. Carefully disentangling himself, he subsides heavily next to her, easily filling all of the limited space available. "Come on, Grace, you _know_ why."

"Any port in a storm?" she suggests. Aloud, it doesn't sound like the witty, brittle bravado she intended. Aloud, it just sounds bitter and defensive. Accusatory.

He frowns, bewilderment obvious. "What? No, of course not. You _are_ joking?"

She's not. But his indignant surprise seems very genuine. Grace attempts a weak smile. "Careful, Boyd, I might start thinking that you actually care."

The puzzled frown becomes something more akin to a scowl. "I _do_ care. Christ, what's got – "

" – into me?" Smirking, Grace quite deliberately raises a single meaningful eyebrow, knowing her facetious response will rile him. "You've forgotten so soon?"

"Classy," Boyd reproves. He doesn't look amused by the coarse intimation. Not in the slightest. "Really classy, Grace. And you say _I'm_ the one with the juvenile sense of humour."

He's not reacting at all in the way Grace expected. Not giving her the tangible proof of his selfish indifference that she desperately needs to help insulate herself from him, and from the damage he could do if she let herself start to believe that his uncharacteristic behaviour is anything more than the product of extremely unusual circumstances. She accepts the implied rebuke, chooses not to challenge him. A rare touch of claustrophobia makes her sit up, and she instantly finds she's glad to be away from the damp, oppressive heat of his body.

"All right, what's going on?" he asks, sounding far more weary than irritable. "Grace…?"

She sighs, not caring if he hears or not. "This… wasn't supposed to happen."

"Wasn't it?"

His calm response causes her to frown. "What?"

"Well, it was inevitable, wasn't it? Sooner or later?" She feels him moving behind her, guesses he's now also sitting up. "Don't try to tell me you don't think so, because I won't believe it for a minute. Two people don't… carry on… the way we always have without eventually either killing or shagging each other."

Grace snorts in derision. "So eloquently put."

It's Boyd's turn to sigh. "Look, being cooped up in here together for over twenty-four hours… it's… I don't know… I suppose it's bound to bring things to the fore. It's a lot harder to ignore… stuff... when you're forced into such close proximity for an indefinite amount of time."

Finally looking round at him, Grace questions, "Stuff?"

He gives her a bleak look in return. "You know exactly what I mean."

It's a gamble, a potentially dangerous gamble, and one she doesn't know if she really wants to take, but after a moment she risks, "Attraction?"

"Yeah," he mutters, quite obviously uncomfortable with the admission, "I suppose."

"So what happens now?" Grace asks after a long, long pause where they simply stare warily at each other. She's not sure exactly what she means, whether she's referring to their immediate situation, or whether she's asking about an as-yet undefined future.

Boyd runs his fingers through his dishevelled hair, smoothing it back into some kind of order. "Give me a chance, eh? All I really want to do right now is go to sleep, not hold a bloody meeting."

It's the wrong thing for him to have said. Maybe he knows it, because his expression becomes chary even as some residual spark of anger reignites inside her. "Oh, don't let _me_ stop you, Boyd. It's not as if we could possibly have anything _important_ to say each other, is it?"

As she gets to her feet, Boyd inquires, "Is this where you storm off into the bathroom again?"

There's a note of something in his voice that stops Grace from doing exactly that. Something that sounds much more like quiet, unhappy resignation than irascible impatience. Hands on hips, she turns to face him, determinedly ignoring her unkempt, semi-clad state as she says, "Well? What do you want me to say?"

"I don't particularly want you to say anything – I just want you to stop behaving so… erratically… and tell me what the hell it is that's bothering you."

"Well, let me think…" she pauses for dramatic effect, "I wonder if it could be anything to do with the fact that maybe, just _maybe_ , I'm feeling just a little bit used?"

" _Used_ …? Oh, come on…" Boyd looks perplexed, even slightly outraged. "So that was all me, was it? I dragged you kicking and screaming – "

"Don't be ridiculous," Grace snaps at him, rising guilt at her part in it all making her savage, "I'm not talking about consent, I'm talking about _convenience_."

Boyd stands up, the sudden quick movement somehow ominous. "'Convenience'?"

"Please don't insult me by trying to pretend it was anything else."

"Grace – "

"I'm going to have a shower," she announces, already in motion as she cuts off whatever he might have been going to say. "If you're stupid enough to force the damn door, _you_ can pay for the damage."

-oOo-

 _Continued…_


	6. Imperfect People

**SIX – Imperfect People**

Stepping out of the humid bathroom braced for an unpleasant exchange of words, Grace finds herself confronting a man conspicuous by his absence. A quick glance confirms that his long dark coat is also missing, leaving her to not unreasonably conclude that Boyd has done exactly what Boyd so often does – lost his temper and acted on whichever reckless impulse struck him first. Despite the bitter chill outside, and the minor head injury that kept him asleep for a large part of the afternoon, she isn't overly worried for his safety – he's eminently capable of looking after himself – she's merely piqued that his disappearance will result in the whole… unfortunate matter… remaining unresolved until he deigns to return. Which, of course, he will, sooner or later. He's not avoiding confrontation, he's making a statement.

Most of her anger and a good deal of her righteous certainty have already ebbed away. Calmer after a long, refreshing shower, she's able to apply a degree of professional detachment to the painful task of analysing her contribution to the evening's unanticipated and not altogether satisfactory turn of events.

Wilful contrariness, that's what her father would have called her inconsistent behaviour, no doubt about it. Then, much as he loved her – and Grace knows he did – her father never really understood her. In hindsight, she can see why he thought she was difficult, stubborn, and, yes, contrary. Moving aimlessly round the room, absent-mindedly tidying things, she can't help dwelling on the past, on all the things that shaped her character for better or worse. On the men who have helped shape her character, too. Or perhaps not her character, but certainly her insecurities. Fickle, unreliable men who, at the very least, have completely failed to live up to her expectations. Men like Colin Bulmer and Harry Taylor.

But, she wonders in a moment of stark clarity, is Peter Boyd _really_ one of those men?

Stopping by the window, she moves one of the curtains just enough to look out at the night. Only a very few light flakes of snow are falling now, and they are doing so in a very lazy, unthreatening sort of way. The snow that's already fallen is still deep, banked high here and there against the half-buried humps of snowbound vehicles, but the odd flakes that fall on the outside window ledge are melting away on impact. The thaw has started, Grace is sure of it. The snow will start to melt, turning inexorably to unattractive brown slush, and they will finally be able to leave. Not tonight, maybe not first thing in the morning, but soon.

He's not a bad man. Far from it. The seething anger that so often sparks his hot temper is generated by frustration, nothing more sinister than that. He is impatient, impetuous, and often irascible, but he is not a bad man. Hasn't she seen for herself on occasions too numerous to think about just how kind he can be? How gentle? How compassionate? Hasn't it been years since she was even slightly surprised by how quickly and easily traumatised victims and devastated family members alike will open up to him?

But this is about _her_ , not _him_. Isn't it?

Leaving the window, Grace returns to the bathroom, glaring in distaste at the few stray items of damp clothing – male and female – left next to the small wall-mounted heater to dry. She wants to be at home, where she can wash her clothes properly instead of rinsing them through with plain water and hoping for the best. At home, where she can have a leisurely bath, cook proper food, and read proper books. At home… where she can be alone.

Though she _is_ alone, Boyd having still not returned. Abandoning the bathroom again, she vigorously shakes, and then neatly arranges the rumpled duvet on her bed, trying not to think about how it came to be so disordered in the first place. But despite the disciplined way she marshals her thoughts, she fancies she can still feel a ghost of him pressed hotly against her, moving slickly inside her.

Even as a thoroughly independent and emancipated student in the heady 'sixties, one night stands and casual sex didn't really interest her. Not that there weren't a few such… encounters, of course, but –

"For heaven's sake, Grace," she suddenly snarls into the empty silence, "stop all this pointless brooding and just sort yourself _out_."

It's easier said than done. That she likes him – _really_ likes him – isn't in question, and nor is her strong physical attraction to him, but can she trust him? Really trust him, the way she needs to? Trust him not to simply take what he wants and move on. She's seen many women come and go over the years, but none of them seem to have stayed with him for very long. He's a difficult, damaged man; handsome, articulate, and occasionally deeply charming, too, but the kind of man who invariably attracts the kind of women who think they can rescue and redeem him, and who quickly disappear when they realise the task is beyond them.

Is she really any different from them?

And, even if she is, is _he_ really what she needs, and is _she_ really what he wants?

-oOo-

Boyd returns eventually, stalking into the room in aloof silence, and she watches narrow-eyed as he hangs up his coat. Not looking at her he says, "Don't start, Grace. Just don't, okay?"

Seated on the couch with her feet tucked up, her reply is a quiet and truthful, "I wasn't going to."

Some of the tautness leaves his stance, and he takes a few cautious steps towards her, stopping with his hand on the back of one of the wooden chairs. He looks tired and pensive, but she can't see any obvious sign of anger or belligerence. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet and steady, "We need to talk."

Talking isn't the Boyd way, and Grace is very well aware of the fact. Clearly, he's been doing some serious thinking of his own to have come to such a radical conclusion. Restraining a sigh, and making an effort to reply in the same calm, non-confrontational manner, she asks, "What's the point?"

Boyd answers with two questions of his own. "Don't you think we've been playing games for far too long? Don't you think it's time we tried to work out – _together_ – what it is we actually want from each other?"

"What I think," she replies carefully, ignoring the powerful urge to blindly follow her heart and embrace the startling opportunity he's giving her, "is that we should accept that circumstances are responsible for what happened tonight, and then put it all behind us and move on."

"Why?" It doesn't sound like an irritable challenge. More like a genuine and apparently reasonable question. "Grace, I've known you for a long, long time, and in all that time you've always insisted that it's far better to talk about things than to bottle them up. It's your professional _raison d'être_ , for God's sake, and yet suddenly…" The words trail away, as if he simply doesn't know how to finish the sentence. A pang of sympathy and regret tugs at her as she sees the look of unhappy frustration in his eyes. Guilt twinges inside her, too, and that's even harder to stomach.

"I'm sorry," she says, and she means it. She takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment then exhales slowly. "I haven't been very fair to you, have I?"

To her surprise, Boyd does not bluntly agree. He just gives her a slight and very rueful smile. "I don't think either of us have exactly covered ourselves in glory tonight."

"Sit down," Grace prompts, gesturing at the chair he's still grasping, "I can't think straight with you standing there looking like you're about to caution me for disturbing the peace."

"Guilty conscience?" he asks, but he complies, settling himself opposite her, the physical gap between them significant but not yet intimidating.

She manages a small smile. "I don't think so. Though there was that one time – "

"Don't incriminate yourself, Grace," Boyd interrupts. "I'm quite happy to remain in blissful ignorance, thanks."

It's too easy, she realises, to ignore everything that's wrong and fall back into the familiar pattern of banter that they've become so very good at over the years. Too easy. She looks down for a moment, trying to order her thoughts in preparation for the difficult conversation that's looming ominously ahead of them. When he says nothing further, she makes herself look up again to say, "There's absolutely no point in talking about this unless we're both going to be completely honest with each other."

Boyd's intent gaze doesn't waver. "Agreed."

"What did you mean earlier? When you said you thought… what happened… was inevitable?"

"Exactly that. Come on, Grace, it's hardly an ambiguous statement, is it? You and me… You can't deny that there's always been something there. Some kind of spark."

Time to be honest. Time to try to at least try to trust him the way he seems to have decided to trust her. "I'm not denying it, but there's a world of difference between… fancying… someone and wanting to be… with them."

"You really think I don't know that?"

"I'm just trying to make sure we're not talking at cross purposes, Boyd, that's all."

He stands up without warning, startling her, and starts to pace – not easy in the small space available. "Why do you always find it so damn necessary to over-analyse everything?"

Irked by the question, her reply is a sharp, "Because I'm not like you – I don't charge at things like a bull in a bloody china shop with some vague idea that I'll worry about the damage later."

What he says next is a complete surprise. "How many men have you slept with, Grace?"

It's annoyance, not embarrassment, which makes the heat rise in her cheeks. "That's none of your damned business."

"Five?" Boyd presses, coming to a halt with his hands planted squarely on his hips. "Ten? More?"

"What the hell's it got to do with you?" she demands. "Worried you didn't measure up?"

"Not particularly." He shrugs so nonchalantly that Grace grits her teeth in irritation. "I'm just wondering if you've always gone through this ridiculous rigmarole before letting yourself get close to someone, or whether there was a time when you simply followed your heart."

Stung by the insightful words, she simply snaps back, "We learn by experience."

"We do," Boyd agrees, "but I wouldn't have expected you, of all people, to jump to conclusions about someone else's feelings. Because that's what's really going on here, isn't it?"

Caught on the sharp edge of his acute perception, Grace adopts a defensive strategy. "You've got form, Boyd."

"For _what_ …?"

"Lying. Cheating. One night stands. Do you want me to go on?"

His expression hardens, as does his voice. "That's up to you, Grace, but I'd strongly advise against it. Breath is too precious to waste on repeating rumours and scurrilous gossip."

"You're denying it's true, then?"

"Oh, I'm no saint," he says, each word perfectly enunciated, "but then I've never claimed to be. Do you have any idea what it was like for me when Mary died? How fucking hard it was to cope with the knowledge that all she wanted in her very last days was to see her son again – or at the very least to know for certain whether he was alive or dead – and the guilt I felt because I couldn't make either of those things happen for her?"

"No," Grace says truthfully, "I don't. But, harsh though it sounds, I don't see the relevance."

Boyd doesn't roar in anger, he remains eerily calm. "It all but broke me, Grace. My wife was dead, and my son was still missing, with no idea he'd lost his mother. If I made a few bad choices during that time… well, maybe I can be forgiven for that."

She looks down, not able to hold his gaze in the face of such raw pain. "All right. Point taken. I'm sorry."

"And in answer to your question, would it make any difference if I was denying it? You've already made your mind up, haven't you? I'm a bad lad who can't be trusted, and as far as you're concerned, that's that."

The words are delivered in such a quiet, collected way that for a moment Grace doesn't feel their sting. When she does, though, it hurts. Hurts, and stops all her racing thoughts dead in their tracks for a few devastating seconds. She finds herself swallowing hard, but her throat seems very dry, and no words even begin to form. Still motionless, Boyd is watching her, features set into an impassive mask that makes it impossible to guess what he's thinking.

When she finds her voice, it's to say again, "I'm sorry."

For a moment she thinks he's going to offer her a resigned smile. He doesn't. "So am I, Grace. So am I."

"It's a ridiculous idea anyway," she ventures, not sure if she's trying to make a dark joke of the words, or not. "You and me? It could never work."

Boyd has moved to the window, but he glances over his shoulder at her to ask, "Why are you so very sure of that?"

"Because…" she starts, then pauses to consider her reply with a little more care. "Because we do nothing but rub each other up the wrong way. Half the time we're genuinely annoyed with each other, and the rest of the time we're either squabbling over nothing, or deliberately needling each other just to get a reaction."

"And you, as a psychologist, have never asked yourself why?"

She sighs. "Of course I have."

"And…?" Boyd prompts.

"I thought we agreed that neither of us is trying to deny that there's some kind of spark between us?"

"But you stubbornly refuse to accept that it is – or ever could be – more than that." It's not a question.

Riled again by his sharp, uncompromising insight, Grace snaps, "You're in no position to call _me_ stubborn, Boyd."

This time he does smile, but there's no humour to it. "You're right. But I'm also bloody-minded enough to argue straight through the night. Are you?"

A surge of anger and adrenaline instantly revives her fighting spirit. "Do you really want to find out?"

-oOo-

"Christ," Boyd growls, rounding on her yet again, "why won't you just _believe_ me?"

She takes a step back, needing to increase the physical distance between them. "Say what you like, it was still a bad mistake. All of it. It was just… situational. We're so far removed from our everyday lives here that we might as well be on Mars. This is a completely artificial situation, nothing to do with reality, and it's been influencing our behaviour all along."

"I know my own mind, Grace. We may be stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere, but I know what I want."

"Ten minutes of snogging and angry sex, and suddenly you think – "

" _Ten_ minutes?"

"Oh, don't be so bloody childish." Grace moves jerkily across the room to the window. Too many contradictory feelings, too many words. Irritably twitching the curtains open a few inches, she glares out at the frozen world beyond. It must be close to dawn, she realises. It feels like she's been awake forever. At least it's finally stopped snowing. Everything is very still, nothing and no-one moving, and the silence still has the strange, hushed quality caused by the dense snow covering everything in sight, but nothing is falling from the sky. Not a single, solitary flake. Almost drunk with tiredness, she finds it difficult to remember what day it is. Time has become an abstract sort of thing. Aloud, she inquires, "Is it Saturday or Sunday now?"

"Saturday," Boyd's voice says, closer behind her than she expects. It doesn't altogether surprise her, then, when his hands settle on her shoulders. Shrugging him off requires far too much energy; besides, she lacks the urge. They've argued in circles for hours, confusing and contradicting themselves, and frequently forgetting who's already said what. A gruelling war of attrition, with no clear winner anywhere in sight. It feels good when he starts to knead the weary muscles that are locked tight with tension, and Grace lets him continue without the slightest murmur of protest. He's gentle, competent, and she can't help closing her eyes as she begins to relax just a little.

Comprehension comes not in a blinding flash, but slowly, steadily, expanding through her consciousness without forcing itself on her until it is simply there, blossoming into a serene and fully-formed acceptance that issues no challenges, makes no demands. He is what he is, every bit as fallible, individual and unique as she is, and – possibly without meaning to – he has proved something to her in his tenacious refusal to give ground. Not that he is, indeed, extraordinarily bloody-minded when he wants to be, which she has always known, but that he's absolutely sincere. It's no elaborate ruse, no cruel joke at her expense. He means every single word of every single unexpected declaration.

She's so tired now. So incredibly, stupidly tired. The very last fragile defences don't so much fall, as crumble away to dust. Into the silence, she murmurs, "All right."

"Eh? What?"

If Grace wasn't quite so weary, she'd be tempted to laugh at the confusion evident in his tone. She turns round to face him, barely an inch or two between them. The significant height difference between them is much more pronounced at close quarters, and she's forced to look up to meet his quizzical gaze. "I have no idea how you can be so incredibly slow on the uptake sometimes, Boyd. It genuinely astounds me. I said, 'all right'. I give in. Now, can we _please_ just go to bed – I don't know about you, but I'm completely exhausted."

-oOo-

 _Continued…_


	7. Two's Not A Bad Number

**SEVEN – Two's Not a Bad Number**

Grace wakes with a start, and not because she's not alone in the narrow single bed. She wakes with a start because she doesn't really believe she's been asleep, despite incontrovertible evidence to the contrary. Even with the curtains closed, the room is now light in a hard, insistent sort of way that suggests it must be late morning, or perhaps even later. It doesn't seem possible, feels as if it's only been a few moments since she first closed her eyes. She can't contest what she can see for herself, however, and she reluctantly accepts that no matter how weary she still feels, she's had several hours' uninterrupted sleep at the very least. Beyond the walls of their room, a door slams somewhere not too far away, and she can hear people talking, the words themselves muffled and indecipherable.

There's no room in the bed to move, to stretch. Boyd is by no means a small man, and it seems he's taking up far more than his fair share of the restricted space. Lying on her side, Grace can feel the entire length of his body pressed up warmly behind her, and she's oddly touched by the limp, heavy arm that's draped over her waist. Maybe it's an unconscious thing, but it's intimate and reassuring, and she appreciates it. It wouldn't exactly be a hardship to wake up in the same position every morning – if in a much bigger bed – she sleepily decides. Against her better judgement she allows herself the brief luxury of imagining the novelty of once again regularly sharing a bed with someone else.

She jumps at the unexpected sensation of someone gently nuzzling the back of her neck. No mistaking the soft bristle of his beard, much less harsh than the heavy stubble alongside it, or the surprising softness of his lips. No mistaking the pleasant, illicit shiver that runs up and down her spine in response, either. His voice is deep and sleep-roughened, a quiet, sensual growl. "Good morning…"

It shatters all her preconceptions, that throaty, tempting tone. Shatters any vague, disconsolate ideas Grace might have been beginning to unconsciously form about how things will inevitably unfold in the daylight hours to come. More, it sends tiny exciting shocks through her body, all of which seem to head straight for the pit of her stomach and lower. The deep, warm ache of need and growing arousal starts to really take hold, and she swallows hard, closing her eyes tightly for a moment. It doesn't help, not at all. It simply allows all her other senses to run riot. Trying to sound at least half-composed, she manages, "Shush. I'm asleep."

Boyd chuckles, low in his throat. "Whatever you say, Grace. Whatever you say."

The hand attached to the arm looped over her waist slips easily under the hem of the shirt he loaned her seemingly a lifetime ago, and starts to wander in a lazy exploration of what it can easily reach. Grace feels every nerve in every inch of skin that he touches jump in response. It takes her by surprise, the strength and eagerness of her body's instinctive reaction to his touch. Delights her, too, in all sorts of ways. Maybe she's never given quite enough credence to the popular idea that age is merely a number, that it's never too late to unselfconsciously embrace all the heady pleasures of love and lust. Far too tired earlier to do much beyond collapsing into bed, there are a lot of new frontiers for them to discover and enjoy, and – God help her – she's looking forward to exploring every last one of them.

It's not easy in the restricted space, but with a little effort she manages to turn over to face him. Boyd looks tousled, sleepy, and gently amused, a very appealing combination, one that encourages Grace to seek his lips with her own. It's a brief, gentle kiss, restrained, and yet somehow wonderfully erotic because of it. There's absolutely no need for more words – everything necessary has already been said – but staring deep into his eyes, she finds just a few more. "God, I want you…"

-oOo-

The sun has started its slow descent in the sky, and Boyd is drawing lazy patterns on her stomach with just the very tips of his fingers when he suddenly says, "Do you know what I'm going to do the minute I get home?"

Relaxed and languorous, Grace waits for him to answer what she assumes is a completely rhetorical question. When he doesn't, she reaches out to idly run her fingers through his hair and inquires, "No; what?"

"I'm going to have a bath. A very long, very hot bath."

"Heavenly." She means it, too. They've done their fastidious best, but after more than thirty-six hours stuck in the small hotel room sharing the woefully inadequate facilities in the even smaller bathroom, with no fresh clothes between them, the idea of a warm, leisurely bath is akin to being offered a fleeting glimpse of paradise.

"A long, hot bath," Boyd repeats, a covetous note in his voice, "and a _shave_."

"Clean clothes," she says, imagining the simple luxury of it. Tempting visions – not of a carnal nature – chase through her mind. "A comfortable bed. Alcohol. Decent food. Coffee. Not necessarily in that order."

"First night back in London, I'm going to take you out to dinner," Boyd announces in a tone she can only describe as decisive and business-like. The sort of tone she's heard him use a thousand times or more at work. "There's a pub near my place that does the best beef Wellington you've ever had. The _Temeraire_ , just off Trafalgar Road; near the park."

"Very exotic," she teases, but the thought of proper food eaten off proper plates with proper cutlery isn't just mouth-watering, it's absolutely, ridiculously sublime. "Beef Wellington in a pub, eh?"

The grin he gives her is enchanting in its easy, unaffected mischievousness. It suits him, hints at the jaunty, free-spirited young man she imagines he once was before time and tragedy took their bitter toll. "Never let it be said that I don't know how to treat a lady, Grace."

His good mood is both contagious and uplifting. She smiles back, traces her fingers lightly across the nearest bare shoulder, still mildly intoxicated by the new, exciting freedom to touch him how she wishes, whenever she wishes. "You do know that within twenty-four hours of crossing the M25 we'll be fighting like cat and dog again, don't you?"

"Think of the fringe benefits."

"Such as?"

Boyd's reply is prompt. "Make-up sex, for one."

"At our age?"

"Why not at our age?"

A question she can think of no answer to. "True. Mind you, that could end up being a _lot_ of sex, Boyd."

His reply is solemn. "It's a burden I'm willing to bear."

Chuckling, Grace shakes her head. "If you're this bad _now_ , what the hell were you like as a randy teenager?"

"Incredibly frustrated, mainly."

"No willing young ladies naïve enough to fall for your charms?" she inquires, hiding a smirk.

"For most of my teenage years I was firmly corralled in an all-boys boarding school to keep me out of trouble, Grace. It was either that or Borstal, according to my father."

"Poor Peter. You're breaking my heart."

Boyd growls in retort, then stretches himself out full-length alongside her again. "What about you?"

She pretends not to understand the inference. "What _about_ me?"

"All those earnest young male undergraduates panting over their very first sight of a bra strap…?"

She could so easily lie. Leave the past where it belongs and continue trying to keep it half-forgotten in the shadows at the edge of her memories. Instead, she opts for a succinct, "Before then."

Boyd's dark eyebrows rise in obvious surprise. "Really?"

"Really," she confirms, wondering if he'll be shocked. Despite the edge of wildness in his character, despite his eccentricity and individuality, Boyd has an oddly conventional side to his nature that always manifests itself when she least expects. Oh yes, he could very easily be perturbed by her admission.

It seems that he's not. "I'm impressed."

"And a little scandalised?"

He laughs. "God, no. Good for you, Grace. Equality for all in the sowing of wild oats, I say."

She regards him with lingering suspicion. "Don't tell me you weren't brought up with all those middle-class double-standards about what's considered acceptable behaviour for girls and boys, because I won't believe you for a minute."

"Oh, I was," he agrees, "but I was never very keen on being told what to do or what to think."

Another dichotomy. "Yet you chose a career in public service where you had to get used to doing both."

He nips her earlobe gently, murmurs, "I'm just naturally contrary, Grace."

 _Contrary_. That word again, wrapped in painful memories. Perhaps it's the sheer contrariness her father always accused her of that makes her say, "Colin Bulmer. In answer to the question you're diplomatically not asking."

Boyd moves to look down at her. "The lad with the Lambretta who didn't quite live up to expectations?"

"Indeed." She holds his gaze without blinking. "He did it for a bet, apparently. Asked me out, I mean. Anything else he got before I found out was just an accidental bonus. For him."

"Jesus Christ." He looks both angry and affronted on her behalf. "Seriously?"

She sounds harsher than she intends as she says, "Oh, I _really_ know how to pick my men, trust me. No offence."

Boyd sits up, a controlled quietness about him that's extremely uncharacteristic. He takes her hand, his fingers interlacing with hers. She can feel the sinewy strength there, latent but obvious. "So that's what all this arguing and soul-searching has been about."

"I suppose so," she admits. Somehow it's a relief to share some kind of explanation. "In part, at least."

He's silent for several long, deliberate seconds. Then he asks, "Am I man of my word, Grace?"

Bemused, not sure what he's leading up to, she nods. "Yes."

"And have you ever known me deliberately break my word?"

Grace doesn't need to think about it. She shakes her head. "No. Not once in all the years I've known you."

Intense dark eyes study her with unflinching sincerity. "I'm not going to make any rash promises that I might not be able to keep, but I can tell you here and now that I will never intentionally hurt you. _Never_."

She believes him. Unequivocally. "I know, Peter. I know."

"If it goes wrong," he says, still quiet, still sincere, "then it goes wrong, but with you I'm a better man, and maybe a better man can make it work against all the odds."

"It takes two to make or break a relationship, not just one," she tells him.

His fingers tighten a fraction around hers. "Two's not a bad number, Grace."

-oOo-

With the early-afternoon winter sun shining brightly, the first hint of a real thaw is causing a flurry of activity outside. Standing by the hotel room window, Grace watches as the very first cars attempt to leave. A couple of the large four-wheel drives try first, their big tyres helping to turn the snow to a thick, dirty slush, and their eventual success urges a few of the more adventurous – or just plain foolhardy – drivers in less robust vehicles, ones that struggle, wheels spinning furiously, to also try their luck at escaping. When they, too, finally disappear from sight, she estimates that by the evening most, if not all, the stranded vehicles will be gone from the big blocks of parking. The thick blanket of snow will linger for days where it remains undisturbed, no doubt about that, but unless more falls, she guesses that the main roads will quickly clear, allowing a gradual but steady reduction of the chaos the bad weather has caused throughout the region.

Maybe they'll be back in London before the evening. It's a strange thought. Forty-eight hours later than they expected to be, but finally home. Her in Finchley, him in Greenwich, the Thames between them the way it's always been.

She needs to start trusting him. _Really_ trusting him instead of merely paying lip service to the idea. She has to put aside her cynicism and her bad memories and believe in his sincerity, really believe in it. If she can't…

Giving herself a firm mental shake, Grace turns away from the window and walks across the room to halt by the closed bathroom door. The sound of running water and enthusiastic splashing makes her raise her voice to announce, "People are starting to leave, Boyd."

His voice replies with an immediate, "What?"

"I said – "

"I can't bloody hear you, Grace. Come in – the door's not locked."

She eyes the door warily. "It's okay. It can wait."

"Eh?"

"Oh, for…" she mutters, and reaches for the door handle. Opening the door only a fraction, she says, "People are starting to leave."

"Why are you hovering out there?"

"You're in the shower, Boyd."

The sound of splashing does not abate. "And…?"

Some things, she reflects, take a bit of time to adjust to. In lieu of a more detailed explanation, she offers a vague, "Well… you know…"

Boyd seems to understand, however, because even over the noise of the water, his derisive snort is perfectly audible. "Stable bloody doors, Grace. That horse has well and truly bolted, believe me. Just get in here, will you? You're causing a draught."

His deliberate brusqueness is a minor blessing, saving her from herself. He's probably just as uncomfortable as she is, in his own way, as they test entirely new boundaries. Boyd being Boyd, however, he is simply charging headlong into the metaphorical minefield instead of cautiously picking his way through it the way she's trying to do, but, Grace decides, that's all right. She'd rather have him blunt and fearless, the way she's learnt to accept him, than watch him struggle and fail to be something he's not.

The high level of humidity in the bathroom is extraordinary, the small extractor fan clearly not able to cope with the demands being made of it, but she barely notices, her attention completely captured by the tall figure standing under the running water. In that moment he looks so graceful and so striking in all his perfect imperfection that she's briefly captivated, unable to do anything but stare. Weathered and battle-scarred, a little too stocky here, a little too lanky there, there's nonetheless an elegant symmetry to all the mundane curves and angles of his body that quite literally steals her breath away – just for a fleeting second. A detached part of her mind is amused beyond measure by her ridiculous foolishness, but she's self-aware enough to acknowledge it with a wry acquiescence that soothes away any trace of embarrassment.

Indeed, she's serene enough to smile at him when he turns to look at her, and bold enough to say, "Need any help…?"

Boyd actually looks surprised for an instant before a wide and wolfish grin breaks through. He doesn't say a word, just extends a hand beyond the edge of the glass shower screen. Only when she slips off her borrowed shirt and reaches out to take it does he say, "There's not a lot of room in here, you know."

"Oh, I'm sure there's enough."

"You think?" he asks, his hands moving to her hips as she edges under the cascading water with him.

Absurdly happy, Grace smirks. "Maybe not for what _you've_ got in mind… but I have some bad news for your over-enthusiastic libido – it's time we got a move on and got out of here. Before the temperature starts to drop again."

-oOo-

 _Continued…_


	8. London

**EIGHT – London**

It's early evening by the time they reach Finchley, and though the outside temperature is bitter, Grace isn't surprised by how little snow there is. The roads and pavements are completely clear, and where any snow remains on walls, roofs or trees, it appears to be a thin and crusty layer, more ice than snow. They could see the steady reduction themselves with every mile they drove south, and now it seems strange, almost impossible, that they could have been so thoroughly stranded by the snow for so long. As Boyd parks the big Audi neatly outside her house, Grace starts to rummage through her bag, looking for her keys. It gives her an excuse not to look at him as she says, "Are you going to come in, or…?"

"I think," he says, and it's evident from the deliberate way he speaks that he's choosing his words with care, "that it might be better for both of us if I didn't. I don't know about you, but I'm so bloody tired I can barely think straight."

"Okay."

"You all right with that?"

She nods. "Of course."

Boyd's answering sigh is loud and impatient. "Don't do that female say-one-thing-and-mean-something-totally-different thing, Grace. Not tonight."

More weary than indignant, she replies, "I'm not. Really. It's just… I don't know. It's all a bit of an anti-climax, isn't it? To suddenly be back at home again after the last couple of days, I mean."

"Yeah."

She looks across at him, regards him thoughtfully as he stares straight ahead, apparently gazing at nothing. He looks every bit as exhausted as she feels, and very far from content. The sudden need to reassure him is very strong. "It really _is_ okay, Boyd. Go home, get some sleep. I'll call you in the morning."

He grunts and then looks at her to ask, "I take it you don't mind deferring dinner, then?"

"The famous beef Wellington? No, of course not."

There's something very intent in his expression as he says, "Promise me something, Grace?"

"What?"

"Don't make any rash decisions without me."

Grace frowns. "Such as?"

"You know what I'm talking about." Holding her gaze, Boyd adds, "You. The way you always insist on over-analysing everything. I don't want to wake up tomorrow to an urgent telephone call telling me you've been awake all night thinking things over, and you've decided this was all a big mistake and we need to spend the rest of our damned lives pretending none of it ever happened."

Despite the solemnity of his tone, she can't help chuckling ruefully. "You really do know me very well, don't you?"

"Yes I do."

"In this case, however," she continues, "I've come to the conclusion that after last night's marathon discussion, any further analysis would be a complete waste of time."

His reply is simple and obviously heartfelt. "Thank fuck for that."

"Though," Grace adds, hiding her amusement, "it's quite possible that I could change my mind. Women's prerogative."

"Wonderful."

"I'm teasing you," she says, releasing her seatbelt.

"As if I couldn't work that out for my bloody self," he growls back.

"Goodnight kiss…?"

Boyd gives her a haughty look. "I might just about be able to find the energy. Maybe."

-oOo-

Thoroughly relaxed after a long bath, and revelling in the clean, crisp feeling of fresh sheets and night attire, Grace has only been in bed for a matter of minutes before the crushing tiredness wins out and she falls into a light doze that very quickly becomes hour after hour of blissfully undisturbed sleep. If she dreams at all, she doesn't remember it when the sound of her neighbours slamming car doors and talking loudly out in the street drags her back to awareness. It's light outside, she can see that round the edge of the curtains, and a glance at her bedside clock confirms that it's a little past nine. Not too savage an hour to wake on a Sunday morning.

She feels much better, she very quickly realises. Almost entirely human again. Her mind wanders for a few minutes as she stays where she is, comfortable and warm under the bedcovers. The last few days have already taken on an odd, surreal sort of quality in her memory. Not quite real, although she knows that all of it – _all_ of it – very definitely happened. The interrupted drive home from Manchester, the blizzard, the small, bland hotel room. _Him_.

Closing her eyes, she concentrates, and finds she can almost feel him as a physical presence in the bed with her. Feel him on her, in her. Feel the slight roughness of his hands, the artful softness of his lips; feel the living warmth of his skin… and the unmistakable male hardness pressed against her. Feel him, taste him, smell him. Shockingly powerful and erotic, the tumble of vivid thoughts and memories that cause a warm flush of arousal, one that –

The phone extension next to her bed starts to ring, it's loud, jarring tone grinding on her nerves, and to stop it Grace sweeps up the receiver in a flash of impatient irritation. "Hello…?"

"You made it back, then," a quiet and amused voice drawls.

Grace forces herself to relax, to disguise her tetchiness. "Eve."

"You were expecting someone else?"

Too damned perceptive, their younger colleague. Clearly the conversation is going to require a degree of focus that Grace isn't quite sure she's yet capable of. Trying to sound slightly less grumpy, she responds, "Not at all. I was just a bit surprised – usually at this time on a Sunday morning you're either already camped out at the Body Farm, or you're skulking in a darkened room nursing a hangover."

"Rumour and hearsay, Grace. So how was Stafford, or wherever it was you ended up?"

"Snowbound."

"Yeah, I saw the pictures on the news," Eve's voice affirms. "The whole of the Midlands was at a complete standstill because of the blizzard at one point. All the airports were closed, people were getting stuck in snowdrifts. One poor woman even had her baby in the back of a police car."

"Well, I can safely say that nothing that exciting happened to us."

"No?" Eve's tone holds an archness that Grace doesn't miss.

"No," she confirms in a well-practised no-nonsense tone.

A low chuckle precedes, "I bet the Great Leader was an absolute joy to be with, wasn't he? You should get some sort of medal, Grace; or at least a mention in despatches."

"He was a pussycat."

"Really?" Eve's astonishment is audible.

Grace rolls her eyes. "No, _not_ really. This is _Boyd_ we're talking about."

"Well, I'm sure you could have found a way to take his mind off things if you'd tried."

"Who says I didn't?" she inquires, and regrets it immediately. "Joking, Eve. I was _joking_."

"Of _course_ you were," is the deadpan reply. "I would never impugn your professional conduct, Doctor Foley. Christine Clarke might be a little harder to convince."

Thinking of the fearsome former barrister, Grace can't help grimacing. "Is she on the warpath?"

"What do you think? Her favourite Superintendent not only spectacularly failed to attend an important meeting with her, he also spent two days holed up in a seedy hotel somewhere with another woman. I'd watch out for those voodoo pins if I were you, Grace; I think she's sharpening them especially for you."

"You're enjoying all of this far too much, you know."

"I am," is the complacent reply, "but given the huge potential for scandalous gossip, can you really blame me?"

"And how long – " Grace starts, but she's interrupted by the chime of the doorbell, followed by the kind of loud, assertive knocking that removes any doubt she might have had about the identity of her visitor. To Eve, she says, "I've got to go – I'll see you at work tomorrow."

"Yeah," Eve's voice replies, sounding breezy and insouciant, "but the two of you better make damn sure you've got your stories straight by then, because you're being interrogated the minute you step foot back in the dungeon."

"I really can't wait. 'Bye, Eve."

-oOo-

The moment a yawning Grace opens her front door she wishes – fervently – that she'd got out of bed a fraction earlier, or at least that she'd had the time to make herself a little more presentable than she actually feels, standing in the sudden chill in her dressing gown and slippers. In contrast, Boyd looks awake, alert, and particularly well-groomed, even if he is casually dressed in jeans and what appears to be a very soft and well-worn black leather jacket. She can feel her lips pursing a fraction in irritation as she surveys him. He has no right to look so damned good when she feels so dishevelled. Standing on the path not up on the doorstep, he's still just a fraction taller than she is, but they're almost eye-to-eye as she inquires, "Have all the clocks in your house mysteriously stopped working, or something?"

"You're extremely lucky I didn't turn up here about six hours ago." He gives her a pointed look. "It's bloody freezing out here, by the way."

"Better come in, then, hadn't you?"

Boyd does so, and as she closes the door, he says, "Nice bunny rabbit slippers, Grace."

"My niece's daughter gave them to me for Christmas," she informs him loftily. "She's eight."

"They're very… fetching."

"But you're not quite sure what they might fetch?"

"I'm sure they're very comfortable." It's obvious he's struggling not to laugh. "And… um… nice and warm."

"But low on erotic appeal?"

Boyd grins, a distinct gleam in his eye. "Oh, I didn't say that."

Grace can't help laughing, and a moment later she finds herself caught up in a warm, affectionate embrace that's both surprising and reassuring. He's so much bigger than she is, so much stronger, and the difference delights her. He drops his head to kiss her, and she doesn't hesitate to kiss him back. It becomes a deliberately light, teasing kiss, all the more exciting because of it, and several stray ideas involving the big bed upstairs flash through Grace's mind. It's a kind of temporary madness, no doubt, and it will pass as they find their way through all the new territory open to them, but until then she's more than happy to enjoy every shameless, enthusiastic moment of bewitchment.

Moving to nuzzle her neck, Boyd's voice is quiet, husky, as he murmurs, "Half the bloody night I've been lying awake wanting you…"

The answering tingle down her spine is not as powerful as the exciting jolt that centres low in her stomach. Her own voice is barely a whisper as she responds, "When I woke up this morning, I only had to close my eyes and I could feel you, taste you…"

He growls against her skin, the sound intense, and so deep that Grace can feel its vibration. It's more than enough to make her impulsively grab his hand and lead him upstairs.

-oOo-

It's a fiercely cold afternoon in Victoria Park, and Grace isn't at all surprised to see snow still lingering in all the shady places where the winter sun barely falls. Nor is she surprised by the number of orphaned snowy heaps dotted around on the frozen grass, each one a mournful monument to the proud snowman it once was. They walk at a brisk pace to keep warm, staying on the asphalt path that leads broadly north towards tennis courts and a children's play area, and as they do, she keeps her arm firmly looped through Boyd's, ready to claim it's also for the warmth should he question it. He doesn't. If he's at all aware of the increasing sense of entitlement she feels, he doesn't comment on it. Somehow she doubts he ever will, knowing as she does just how instinctively and fiercely territorial he is himself.

It takes a good fifteen minutes of walking and idle conversation, but eventually they work their way round to the inevitable discussion that really can't be avoided. To her astonishment, it is Boyd who broaches the subject first, suddenly saying, "If we're going to do this – "

"'If'?" Grace challenges, but she knows it's a hypothetical _if_. There's no doubt in her mind that they're both equally committed to forging ahead into the unexpected new future that's ahead of them, come what may.

Boyd ignores the interruption. " – then we need to be discreet about it. At work, I mean."

She understands, is too experienced to believe things could be any other way, but an unworthy stab of insecurity makes her snort softly. "Worried about your reputation?"

"Yes," he answers, startling her. He's quick to continue, "But not in the way you mean. You know how out of favour we are at the Yard, and you know what a… controversial… choice of unit commander I've always been."

She nods. Neither fact is a secret to anyone connected even vaguely to the CCU. "True. But I also know that you consistently get results – and so do they. Face it, Boyd, it's much easier for them to carry on moaning and groaning and not actually doing anything than it is for them to go through the hassle of moving you on and finding someone else to appoint. Or am I wrong?"

"You're not wrong. But if they think they've found a legitimate reason to question my professional integrity – or _yours_ – then things could get very serious very quickly."

"Hm." Grace ponders his words as they continue to walk. There's no question that he's right, that any serious suggestion of an intimate relationship between them would draw a lot of unwelcome official attention, both to the unit and to each of them as individuals. Boyd doesn't employ her, doesn't pay her wages, or conduct her appraisals, but he _is_ in sole command of the unit she's seconded to by the Home Office. It doesn't exactly make him her boss, but… She sighs. "Discreet it is, then."

He glances at her. "Is that a problem for you?"

"No." Grace shakes her head. "If anything, it makes it easier."

"How so?" he inquires with a frown.

"Well, if we're deliberately keeping a clear separation between our private and personal lives, I'm not likely to suddenly feel circumscribed in what I can say to you, am I?"

"I didn't think that was a possibility, anyway."

"Oh?"

"When have you _ever_ been frightened to tell me exactly what you think, Grace? Pissing me off has never bothered you before – why would it now?"

"Seriously?" she asks, wondering how he can possibly be so naïve, so tactless, in his choice of words.

"Well, yeah, of course."

Torn between annoyance, incredulity, and amusement, Grace asks, "So it would never occur to you to be a little more… diplomatic… in what you say to me at work – and _how_ you say it – because we're sleeping together?"

Boyd looks bewildered as he shrugs. "No. Why would it?"

He really is a law unto himself, Grace thinks. Singular and inimitable. Incapable of not stubbornly marching to the sound of his own drum. "Then you're either incredibly stupid – which I know you're not – or you've got bigger balls than most."

His smirk is self-satisfied at best. "Well, you know…"

"It wasn't supposed to be a compliment, Boyd," she tells him dryly.

He stops walking, causing her to halt alongside him, looks down at her, expression contemplative. She's about to speak when he says, "I'm not Harry Taylor, Grace, and I'm certainly not Colin-bloody-Bulmer. I don't have a hidden agenda. I'm just a very average, very lonely guy who works hard, makes a lot of mistakes, and who can't quite believe he's been given another chance at happiness."

"And I'm not Mary," she says, her tone gentle but every bit as solemn as his. "I'll never have that mother-of-your-child bond with you, Peter, never be able to share all those precious memories with you – but what I _am_ is your friend."

"I know." He stoops to kiss her, a brief brush of his lips against hers. "It won't be an easy ride, Grace."

"But it won't be a boring one, either." She stares up into his eyes, eyes that look a piercing hazel in the waning afternoon sun, and she finds she's not afraid to add, "There's something neither of us has actually dared to say."

"I know," he says again, his voice steady, "but some words are too powerful to be thrown around lightly."

"That's very profound, Boyd."

"Thank you." He takes her gloved hand, interlocking his fingers with hers. "But I do. You know damn well I do."

"I do." She doesn't need to hear the words themselves. He will say them aloud soon enough. And so will she. Until then, their actions will speak for them.

Her face is almost completely numb from the cold, but Grace certainly feels the icy kiss of the first snowflake to land on her cheek. Looking up, she can see the heavy-looking dark clouds drawing in. "It's started snowing again."

Boyd glances up with a frown. "You want to make a run for the car?"

"No," she says, suddenly filled with all the vibrant, youthful energy that comes with real happiness, "let's do what we didn't do in Staffordshire. Let's build a snowman."

"Really?" The single drawn-out word is heavy with scepticism.

Light-footed, Grace starts into motion, tightening her grip on his hand and all-but dragging him in her wake, "Why not?"

Boyd shakes his head, but he doesn't say a word, just allows himself to be towed onto the grass as the first white flakes begin to settle on the path behind them.

 _\- the end -_


End file.
